


Ocean Blue

by Life_giver



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_giver/pseuds/Life_giver
Summary: “Fingolfin,” He said conversationally, coming closer so that the boy looked away, down to the soft-leather of his boots. Everything about him was soft like Indis, from the pretty, winding braids at his temples, twined with delicate silver, to the pale blue of his robes, a mimic of the ocean he carried within his brooding gaze. Everything about him was somber, almost melancholy. Everything about him was blue.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 20
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

How could something so small be the catalyst to upending his entire life? Fëanor watched the little thing moving beneath its snow-white blankets, kicking its legs, small fingers reaching for him, and finding one of his braids. He recoiled as the baby tried to put the braid inside of his mouth. A sinister thought flitted through his mind then. If he let it, the thing just might choke and his life could go back to the way it had been _before._

Before his father had lost his mind and paraded his new wife around the court. 

Before his new wife had become swollen with a new heir. 

His lip curled as eyes of the deepest ocean blue blinked up at him as he wrestled his braid from a tiny fist. There was already too much strength in him. 

“Live,” He muttered softly. “Live, so that I might teach you your place.” 

A serene ocean mural was painted on the wall above the bassinet, gulls flying over white sailing ships sitting in a harbor. The waves that met the shore made charming animal figures from the foam. Fëanor tilted his head, wondering at the scene. He’d had a night sky painted in his childhood room for as long as he could remember, dark and dotted with hundreds of silver stars. He’d painted a small campfire by his own hand only weeks ago near the base of the mural, something to dispel the darkness. Bright fireflies scattered into the sky above his bed. 

He heard his name being called from the hallway and he stepped away from the bassinet as his father’s wife entered the room, face flushed, bright eyes flitting from him to her child. Fëanor was young, barely edging his way out of childhood, but he understood that this woman was afraid of him. 

_“He unsettles me,” Indis murmured._

_She had her feet propped on a little footstool and her golden hair was unbound, and in the fullness of her pregnancy she wore a thin shapeless shift. Fëanor knew he was not meant to see her so, but he had come seeking his father after a nightmare. His father was never to be found when Fëanor needed him these days. He had slept in his father’s bed after a book of stories until this woman had come along, and no longer did he chase him about the halls roaring like a beast in play, or take him riding in the fields with him._

_“He is a child,” His father laughed, deep and unconcerned. He took up one of Indis’ bare feet, placing it on his knee and kneading it gently. Had he done so with Fëanor’s mother when he was swollen in her belly? Anger settled in his chest, making its home there as he watched them together._

_“The way he looks at me,” She murmured softer, chastised, her hands cradling her belly protectively._

His father’s wife held no love for Fëanor, and she would have none from him. His mother was still first and foremost in his heart, though he had only ever seen her face in paintings. When he smiled, her painting was a mirror. 

“Fëanor,” Indis called softly. “Your father is looking for you.” She always spoke so softly around him, as if she was afraid of startling him. She reminded him of the scared doe his father hunted in the spring. She was weak and unworthy of a place beside the king of the Noldor. Indis rushed to the bassinet and when she found her child moving about, twisting his blanket in that unrelenting fist, she smiled, a consoled breath rushing from her. 

“Were you visiting?” Something like hope seemed to flare in her voice but Fëanor remained silent, brow creased as he looked up at her. 

“Fingolfin is lucky to have you as an older brother, Fëanor.” She bent down and picked up the baby, swaddled in his blanket and rocked him against her chest. “One day he will follow you around, and you will teach him to ride and to hunt.” She smiled, kissing the baby's plump, pink cheek. Her soft eyes roved over Fëanor, and they seemed softened, almost pleading. 

“Would you like to hold your little brother?” She bent to his level and held the baby in the crook of her arm as if she meant to put the squirming thing in Fëanor’s arms. He took several steps back, startled, and embarrassed at his confusion. His face flushed with anger. 

“He is no brother of mine,” He hissed, and suddenly his feet were taking him away, down the hallway, past the startled servants bringing up the noonday meal in the stairwell. He kicked up dust in the courtyard and then he was free, past the court grounds and out into the fields. He kept running until his chest threatened to burst into fire, and that was when he realized that his face was wet with tears. 

The ocean was a loud, ferocious thing, easily moved by storms, never still and placid as the lakes by their winter home. Fëanor leaned on the stone balustrade overlooking the shore, sour at the change of scenery. 

_“The ocean always calls us home,”_ Indis often mused. 

_“It is not my home,”_ Fëanor would always argue. 

Home was not anywhere his father’s wife and her brood settled. They loved the ocean, tempestuous as her lot was. Even now, Fingolfin and Findis ran up and down the shore, barefoot, pocketing shells and screeching when the waves rushed in to catch them.

The summer storms were moving in and heavy gray clouds roiled on the horizon, turning the water dark and violent. He had a mind to call the children in from their play, but they were Indis’ concern, not his. He swirled the wine in his cup, watching the deep red tremble and churn like a squall over water. This was the first begetting day that he had been allowed a cup of wine, and he felt a swell of pride at the years he could claim now. A sharp scream brought his head back up and he found Findis bounding towards him, feet kicking up sand, her hands waving frantically over her head. 

“Fëanor!” She yelled breathlessly. “He went under and I cannot find him.” The girl looked ready to run for their father, but something moved Fëanor and he dropped his cup, letting the dark liquid spread over stark white tile as he ran for the shore. 

He shed his outer coat and waded into the turbulent water. The incoming waves pushed him back with brutal force but he struggled on, swimming to the rocks he had seen Fingolfin near. Fingolfin was half-fish, he could always be found in the ocean or some lake. He knew how to swim better than any of them, so he knew the tide must have taken him under. He saw the boy resurface for a moment, reaching for the surface desperately, sucking in a lungful of air, eyes wide with fear, before the roiling water took him under again. 

Fëanor caught his hand just before he was lost beneath the waves and pulled hard, grabbing him about the waist, and nearly being pulled under himself. He swam with Fëanor, using every bit of strength in his body and when he was near the shore again, he held the boy’s limp body in his arms and let the waves push him forward. He staggered to the shore where he collapsed to his knees in the wet sand, suddenly spent of energy. 

He laid Fingolfin down away from the incoming tide, fearing he had come too late. The boy’s face was still, blood sliding down his temple from a jagged cut near his hairline. He must have been pushed against the rocks. His chest did not move to draw in breath. Fëanor remembered all the times he had wished for his half-kin’s death, and yet when Fingolfin began to cough up water and to breathe, the strange panic in him settled. 

His father had made it to the beach and gathered Fingolfin up at once, his face stricken with fear and wonder as he looked at Fëanor. Perhaps he was just as startled as Fëanor at his rescue. Fingolfin had once tripped down the great spiral stairs at the summer court, knocking a pretty bruise on his cheek, and had not said a word about how he had come to trip. But he was sure their father had known. He had always been aware of the rivalry he had created in his own household.

Fëanor stood and backed away as Indis came running, robes and tumbled wheat hair flying. He watched them all embracing, crying, petting at Fingolfin’s dark hair, wiping at the blood staining his pale face. An accident was one thing, but death had come too near his blood, and Fëanor realized he did not wish it on his father’s son. 

Later that night, he returned to his chambers to find a white shell resting on his windowsill. When he picked it up, the underside was a myriad of iridescent colors. He rubbed a thumb over the smooth surface, knowing it was one of the shells Fingolfin and Findis had been collecting from the beach. He wondered which one had decided to thank him. It had been long since Fingolfin had left little gifts for him; children’s nonsense of leaves and sticks and rocks from the forest. 

_“He loves you, Fëanor. Would it pain you to show some affection?”_ His father had chastised him once, but only once. His father knew of his discontent and that if it was not already in Fëanor’s mind, nothing would move him. He placed the shell back on the windowsill and left it there. 

There was too much water in this new line his father had created. 

“Your form is getting better,” Fëanor complimented, but he easily sidestepped the thrust Fingolfin dealt him, whirling in a flurry of red robes, his feet light on the packed dirt of the training ground. 

They had been at this dance for hours, and Fingolfin, slight as he was, had been trying to wear Fëanor down for the better part of the afternoon. He felt Fingolfin’s sword brush the back of his arm as he rushed forward in an unexpected and foolish charge. Fëanor parried the sword thrust, but when he stood back, he realized his robes had been nicked. 

“Unpredictable, I give you that, but you’re like a bull rushing towards a red target,” He smiled wryly as he held the end of his shorn robe up, eyebrow raising. 

“Then do not wear a red target,” Fingolfin muttered, sheathing his sword smoothly, unaffected at the barb.

Fëanor regarded him down the straight, proud line of his nose, his smile fading. His half-brother was nearly his own height, though he had only taken his first drink of ale a fortnight ago for his begetting day. He already thought himself grown it would seem. 

He sheathed his own sword and made to leave the training yard with a swift step. He had little patience for Indis’ children as it were. He had only agreed to train Fingolfin for his father. Finwë had taken him back into his good graces as of late, and had even drawn him nearer, the more accepting he appeared of his younger half-kin. But that did not mean that he had softened towards Indis’ brood. 

“Your counsel is always valuable,” Fingolfin called after him, “Brother.” Fëanor felt his stomach turn at the title. He rejected it as he had done since Indis had birthed her bastard son. He had often shown his contempt for Fingolfin’s misplaced affection but it seemed he remained stubborn, or worse, dull-witted, about the matter. 

He glanced over his shoulder, appearing to mull over the comment for a moment, and then he turned swiftly, and watched with some satisfaction as Fingolfin’s proud stance withered beneath his sweeping gaze. There, he remembered that cowering boy from childhood. He was only pretending to have grown an inch. 

“Fingolfin,” He said conversationally, coming closer so that the boy looked away, down to the soft-leather of his boots. Everything about him was soft like Indis, from the pretty, winding braids at his temples, twined with delicate silver, to the pale blue of his robes, a mimic of the ocean he carried in his brooding gaze. Everything about him was somber, almost melancholy. Everything about him was blue. 

“Why is it that you seem to carry the grief of the world on your shoulders?” He picked at Fingolfin’s sleeve, pulling it between thumb and forefinger, and then he wound an arm around his thin shoulders. The touch unsettled him, but it perturbed Fingolfin more. The boy nearly recoiled from the loose embrace, but Fëanor clasped his shoulder tightly. 

This was what Fingolfin had been running to their father for years to complain about wasn’t it? Crying that his older brother held no love or affection for him. Brothers embraced freely, or at least that was what he’d seen Fingolfin do with Finarfin without hesitation. They had thrown their arms around one another in jest and roughhoused in the gardens when they were younger. He waited for an answer as he held Fingolfin to him by the shoulder, smiling at the shudder that went through his slight frame. 

“I have never been of equal standing to you,” Fingolfin finally spoke. “I find myself running after you, trying to appease you, but I do nothing but offend you.” That was not the answer he had been expecting, but he felt that old anger rise in his chest, and his fingers dug into Fingolfin’s shoulder harshly and he put his mouth very near to his ear,

“Your very existence offends me,” He hissed, and then he let him go, his entire being thrumming with bitterness. “Do not ever draw on me again,” He lowered his voice to a dangerous tempo. “Or I will cut you from ear to ear and make a smile out of that frown forever frozen on your face.” 

  
  


His father’s house was forever bustling with movement and noise but it was rare that all of his siblings broke bread beneath the same roof these days. Fingolfin cast a glance over the long expanse of table to where his eldest brother sat near to their father at the head. 

Fëanor had uttered no word of greeting to him as he’d swept into the foyer in a flurry of garnet dyed furs, stamping snow from his boots. His sharp glance had passed over Fingolfin as if he did not exist, but he had become accustomed to cold receptions living beneath the same roof as Fëanor. His brother lived apart these days, in preparation to rule his own household, but the real reason was always whispered around court. There was sour blood between Finwë’s children. 

Fingolfin smiled as Írimë leant down and placed a goblet of wine beside his wrist. “You may need this,” She murmured, smile tugging almost imperceptibly at the corner of her mouth. “For the dour prince has come to call once again.” 

“He is more like a dragon than ever,” Fingolfin returned the smile, sharing a secret look with his sister before she moved on down the table, golden hair glinting in the low candlelight. The Dragon Prince, his sisters had named Fëanor. Throughout the years, he had swept around the court in his deep, blood red robes, a golden circlet of his own making wound into the deep black of his hair, his father’s golden child. One severe glance from him had his sisters running to hide. Only Fingolfin had ever sought to challenge him, and it had caught him up in a grievous position. Childhood had been cruel to Fingolfin. 

He tipped back his goblet of wine and then another as dinner wore on. Fëanor was a shining beacon, his voice clear and his laughter louder the more he fell into his cups. He was quite enigmatic when speaking and smiling, but his good humor was only reserved for their father, and a chilled politeness was extended to their mother. Fingolfin would have broken his silence if his mother was ever disrespected in their home. Fëanor was careful with that at least. 

When dinner was over and the table had been cleared, he watched as his father drew a serving girl aside and handed her a silver decanter, “Bring this to the young lord’s room. He was complaining of the chill at dinner.” But the girl visibly shrank at the duty his father had placed in her hands and Fingolfin knew why. He remembered Fëanor’s passionate appetite in adolescence, no servant or lady in waiting had been safe from his advances. 

“I’ll bring it up, father,” Fingolfin announced, taking the stoppered decanter from the girl and dismissing her. Her face flooded with relief before she hurried from the room. 

“Have you been getting along as of late?” His father asked, studying his face with a creased brow. His father had always strove to soften Fëanor towards him, and to shield him from the worst of his brother’s temper, but in the end it had all been for naught. Fingolfin had tried reassuring him their rivalry was only brotherly spats and quarrels, but he was certain their father knew it was deeper than that. Rot had grown deep inside the roots of their family and there was no extracting it now. 

“I strive to soften him towards me, as I have always done,” He murmured, and swallowed hard when his father brought his head forward so that he could place a kiss to the crown of his dark head. 

“You are just and noble, my son.” 

He rapped his knuckles against the door-frame to Fëanor’s chambers, while balancing a tray of warm cider and a bit of the apple pastries his mother had made with her ladies. He’d even put a bit of cream in a dish for his brother to lather on the pastry. When he heard Fëanor’s voice bidding him enter, he slipped inside. There was a moment of quiet as Fëanor looked up from the book in his lap. He had shed his outer robes and lounged in his black riding clothes, his tunic undone at the throat, his bare feet kicked up on a stool, and his hair free of braid and circlet. 

Fingolfin nearly backed his way out of the door at seeing Fëanor so informally. They had never shared a room when younger, his mother was too afraid Fëanor would smother him in his sleep, so he had never seen Fëanor at ease. He noticed the way Fëanor’s face, so placid as he read, twisted at his arrival. He laid the book in his lap and tilted his head as Fingolfin forced his feet to move. He knelt by the cedar traveling chest sitting near Fëanor and placed the tray there, near to where he could reach it. Fëanor remained quiet as his dark eyes glanced down his nose to where Fingolfin knelt. 

“Something to warm you-”

“Where is the girl?” 

“Safe in her bed, I expect,” Fingolfin said slowly, eyes catching on Fëanor’s sharp gaze in a challenge. Fëanor looked away, to the fire that was crackling in the grate near them. He noticed that Fëanor had rolled the sleeves of his tunic to his elbows, his skin was smooth but he had a white scar that ran over the back of his forearm, most likely received on a hunt or possibly at work in the forge. 

“Then you’ve spoiled my fun for the night.” When Fëanor glanced back down at him, a small, delighted smile formed on his face as he noticed the discomfort his words had instilled in Fingolfin. It had always been a game of sorts to his brother, the cruelty. 

“I jest, _little brother_ ,” He said the last bit mockingly and then flicked his fingers to the stool as he pulled his legs from it. “She pales in comparison to what has drawn my eye as of late.” 

Fingolfin moved to sit on the stool, startled that Fëanor had invited him to stay, and even more confused that he wanted to talk civilly. They had shared perhaps a handful of words between them in the last years, mostly biting, mostly cruel. He remained mute as Fëanor poured the cider into the cup on the tray, his movements elegant and precise. 

“A sculptor,” Fëanor said thoughtfully, tilting his head in that way he had about him, as if amused at the train of his own thoughts. “She has beautiful hands and autumn in her hair.” Fingolfin was not quite sure what to make of the way Fëanor’s face softened as he spoke. He was certain he’d never seen him so gentle. Maybe his dragon of a brother had a heart after all. 

“She is surely a beauty to have caught your eye,” Fingolfin finally spoke and watched as Fëanor’s face immediately hardened again. He set his cup of cider aside and released an irritated breath. 

“It is her _skill_ ,” Fëanor said, his own artist fingers touching his temple. “Her mind works like no one else I have met. She brings to life the movement of the Eldar through _stone_.” 

Ah, _talent_ ; the ability to bring forth beauty with one’s own hands, not the beauty itself. 

Talent was the one attribute that Fëanor held above anything else, being a skilled craftsman himself. Only someone of equal standing could garner his respect in this way. Now Fingolfin understood the sudden infatuation of his brother. 

“She cut me, you know.” 

“She _cut_ you,” Fingolfin repeated slowly, as if he were indeed as dull-witted as Fëanor had always taken him to be. Fëanor was as skilled with the sword as he was in the forge. How had a woman bested him? Fëanor nodded, leaning forward, an amused smile on his face as he turned his arm and showed to Fingolfin the scar he had noticed earlier. It had been a deep cut to have marred his skin so. 

“I misread her intentions, I admit. I caught her in her studio alone one night and she gave me a nasty swipe with her carving knife. She would have gutted me if I hadn’t been quicker.” 

“She sounds delightful,” Fingolfin murmured, brow creasing. 

“She will bear me strong children,” Fëanor agreed. Fingolfin would have scoffed at the presumptuousness of his brother, but he knew firsthand that whatever Fëanor wanted, Fëanor obtained by any means necessary. There were few who could resist his charm or his beauty when he deemed to use it. 

The haughty smile in the corner of Fëanor’s smile slipped and a shadow passed over his face as he looked away from Fingolfin and stared into the fire flickering over Fingolfin’s shoulder. 

“Perhaps it is time you leave.” 

Fingolfin moved to stand, eager to be away if a dark mood was overtaking his brother. He knew instinctively what had upset it, it was the sole reason he hated Fingolfin so. If Fëanor’s mother hadn’t died bearing him, there would have been no need for Indis, or the children she had borne their father. Fingolfin would not have even been a thought in Finwë’s mind. 

He had heard the stories whispered around court, that Fëanor had been too strong of a spirit, that he had completely destroyed his mother’s fëa coming into existence. Something like that was a heavy burden to bear on the mind of a child, and Fingolfin wondered for a moment, if that was the true source of Fëanor’s fiery anger. 

“I have always admired you,” The words came out soft but steady, despite the nervous tripping of his heart. He had never spoken to Fëanor so openly. The last time he had bared his heart, his brother had threatened to kill him. “Your courage and strength is unmatched.” He knew that Fëanor would understand what he was striving to convey, the sympathy he felt for what had happened so long ago. Though Indis had tried to be mother to Fëanor, he had rejected her until she had given up, and Fëanor had grown tall with only the love of his father. 

And Fingolfin. Though his love was ignored, passed over, despised, it was always there, unrelenting. 

“Come here,” Fëanor commanded and Fingolfin did, kneeling at his brother’s feet. He had often challenged him, but had never strove to overcome him. He was the second son, and would gladly bow his head to Fëanor and offer fealty whenever needed. He started when Fëanor reached down and grabbed at his chin, forcing his head up. In the firelight, Fëanor’s dark eyes were liquid chasms, and Fingolfin felt himself tipping, threatening to fall into that deep darkness. 

For once, he was able to look on Fëanor without him noticing and scowling so that he must look away, and he was left breathless at the pure perfection Eru Ilúvatar had instilled in this one. It was as if he had spent all of his skill on Fëanor, and left but crumbs for his siblings.

Fingolfin felt his face warm at the turn of his thought, and tried to pull his face away, but Fëanor leaned down and his mind emptied of thought as their lips touched. The brief moment was gentle, and then there was a painful sting and Fingolfin hissed and pulled away with a sharp jerk. He tasted blood, felt it dripping down his chin from a tear in his bottom lip. Fëanor gazed down at him, eyebrow raised, his expression cold. 

“I had always wondered,” Fëanor said, his voice low and measured. Fingolfin’s heart beat so erratically he wanted to press his hand against it so that it wouldn’t tumble from his chest. He looked up at Fëanor, shamed, his stomach turning. 

“Interesting indeed,” Fëanor whispered, and there was that tilt of the lips, and suddenly Fingolfin’s heart was on fire. He stood, clumsily gathering his robes. As he passed Fëanor on his hasty way to the door, he knocked over the tray he had brought up, sending its contents tumbling across the carpet. But he did not stop to right the mess, he only paused with his hand on the chamber door when Fëanor’s voice cut through the thick silence.

“Wipe your chin,” Fëanor hissed. “The evidence of your perversion is on your skin.” 

  
  


It was here that Fëanor felt most alive, it was in the heat of the forge that his reality converged into something meaningful. He could bring forth beauty, creation itself with his own hands, as if the very power of the Valar resided in his fingers. There was no feeling quite like it. It was why he had spent most of his time with the heat of fire on his face, his body bent over an anvil, hammer nearly an extension of his arm. 

He was working on a ring today, a delicate silver band he meant to present Nerdanel with in the coming months. She had turned her chin up at him last he had met with her but she had not yet seen the beauty he could give her, and in that, the beauty they could create together in form and flesh. They were both masters of creation after all, it was fate that they converge. She would see sense in time, and he would be gentle and forthcoming with her until then. She was a puzzle of patience, and though it wasn’t his strong suit, he would learn patience for her sake. 

He let the ring cool before setting it against his palm and admiring his own craftsmanship. When he glanced up, it was to see Fingolfin passing the forge on his way to the stables. He had been nursing a sore lip and a bruised pride for days, scuttling like a crab each time he crossed Fëanor’s path. He smiled and pocketed the ring. It wasn’t new, this avoidant dance of theirs, but Fingolfin had added a new step that Fëanor found intensely intriguing. He could still taste the copper sting of Fingolfin’s blood on his tongue, remembered the lust and the fear in the ocean of his gaze. 

If he had to endure the stale tension of his father’s halls for another week, the least he could do was take his amusement where it was offered. 

He found Fingolfin in the stables, fitting his horse with saddle. It was in Fëanor’s nature to ride without harness but for all of his half-kin’s defiant and morose charm, he was soft being of Indis’ blood. He smiled as he stroked a hand over the horse’s flank and caught Fingolfin’s gaze as he finished securing the saddle. 

Fingolfin’s face was slightly damp, black hair caught against his temples and neck, unsecured by braid or circlet. The smell of dried hay was caught in his hair. He was a prince, but did not parade as one, perhaps a product of his rough childhood. Indis had let her brood run wild and taught them neither manners nor respect. 

“Would you like company?” Fëanor asked and watched with a curl of satisfaction as Fingolfin’s brow creased, confusion and discomfort flooding his face and frame. He was not so thin and wane as he’d been in his youth, but Fëanor still had a foot on him in height. The rivalry between them had forced Fëanor to compare them in all things, and he was satisfied to see Fingolfin lacking in most. The only saving quality he could claim was a pretty face, and a defiant air. 

“I confess, I do not,” Fingolfin muttered. He was at the very least, honest with Fëanor. 

“There is no need to run from me,” Fëanor said, his voice soft and yet Fingolfin moved away when he came closer. He had sown years of distrust between them, and he realized that maybe he had gone about this the wrong way, knowing what he knew now. There were more ways to force someone to heel than fear. 

He watched in fascination as Fingolfin’s skin flushed from his neck to his face as he approached, forcing him against the stall’s wall until there was nowhere he could run to. If he had known of Fingolfin’s unnatural affinity, he would have used it against him sooner. Though it unsettled him, turned his stomach even, the perverse nature of Fingolfin’s lust incited a bit of wicked excitement in him. He pressed a hand to the wall beside Fingolfin’s head, fingers curling against the wood, and kept him there, letting the strange new heat between them churn. 

“You have mistaken me,” Fingolfin hissed, turning his face away. 

“I see the lie in your eyes.” Fëanor laughed softly, his breath stirring the hair near his ear as he leaned in close. “I see it on your skin.” A bead of sweat slid down the side of Fingolfin’s neck and Fëanor caught it against his thumb, watching Fingolfin’s skin erupt in raised flesh. 

It all made sense now, that cumbrous weakness he had always sensed in Fingolfin. 

And all the while he had mistaken it for adulation, or something even more base, envy.

“Allow me to take my leave,” Fingolfin said, his face still turned away and Fëanor heard the tremble in his voice, noticed the way his pulse beat frantically against his neck. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips set in a thin line. Fëanor released a soft laugh but took a step back, enough that Fingolfin could slip around him and he did so like a scared rabbit, shrinking against the wall so that he would not brush against Fëanor as he left. 

Fëanor was playing a game with him for his own amusement. Fingolfin was not so naive that he did not see it. He had known that his brother could be ruthless, and violent as a storm at times, but he had also sensed honor and strength in him. It was why he had trailed him as a child, why he had sought to emulate him, why he still bore such affection for him despite the cold reception he’d had to endure over the long decades. 

He wasn’t sure when that affection had twisted itself into something dark and corrupt. 

Perhaps he deserved Fëanor’s contempt, his mockery. 

He was _unclean._

He had spent his youth quietly loving Fëanor from afar, and receiving only ridicule for it. But every slight, every offense made him yearn even more for a gentle word or look from his brother. It was a weakness he had tried to rip from his chest without success. That moment before the fire, when Fëanor had kissed him, before the sting of his cruel teeth, had been every wicked desire of his made real. And then it had been stolen from him with the quirk of Fëanor’s lips. 

He should have been accustomed to the rejection. He had only ever been visible to Fëanor if it was their father’s wish and nothing more, but there was still a young boy in him that wanted love and approval from someone he admired. Fëanor made him feel to be what he knew in his heart was true. He was an outcast, misplaced, something that should not have been. He would always be second in their father’s heart and mind, and barely a thought in Fëanor’s. 

He undid his robes and slid into the warm bath that had been prepared for him, seeking to drown his thoughts in lavender scattered water. He could see the ocean from his window; night water, moonlit foam cresting white shores. He kept the day that Fëanor had saved him from those ocean waves, tucked away like a quiet keepsake. Because in that moment, when he’d realized that it was Fëanor pulling him from the water, Fëanor had made a choice to let him live, and in that choice whispered something other than contempt. 

Before then, he had been content to disappear into the sandstone of his father’s halls, to stay quiet and step carefully to avoid Fëanor’s gaze, but after, he’d made sure that Fëanor could not avoid his presence. He was louder than the ocean waves, and Fëanor would have to look. 

He touched his bottom lip, wincing at the pain. A jagged cut split the skin, and he felt it each second of the day when his tongue brushed against it, a reminder that he had finally struck a nerve. He was out in the open, his sins thrown down upon the table and Fëanor had smiled at them and found them amusing. 

He felt like a child’s spinning top, left to tilt and tumble from his axis. 

Fëanor would not stop the spinning as he should being the elder, but instead, he would take another turn, spin him faster if it meant he could play the puppeteer. He anticipated it, and knew that there was little he could do to stop it now that he was in motion. 

Fëanor brooded for a time over the matter, watching the ocean eat at the dark shore outside his balcony. He was rarely one to be moved, but watching the sand slide back into the sea, crumbling beneath the harsh waves, it felt as if his resolve was collapsing with the shore.

When had he become so harsh? So unforgiving and bitter?

Had he no honor?

For a moment, he almost turned away and locked his door, but a servant returned with a note, sliding it into his hand and then flitting away without ever looking him in the eye. Letters at this time of night were always of the furtive kind. It was a delicate hour in which many things could be done beneath the cover of darkness. 

It was too late now to turn him away. He had walked the long road of bitterness, and the bare bones of it all was that this dance was about survival. 

Fëanor carefully folded the parchment and stuck it into the grate of the fireplace. He watched as the letter caught fire, its edges curling black, the fire eating away at it slowly. It was a patient death. 

There was no knock at the door, perhaps Fingolfin knew what his summons entailed. He slipped through the door like a wraith swathed in blue silks and even latched the door quietly behind him. He hadn’t bothered to dress properly, and his hair was still wet from the bath, and there was a smoothness to his face that unsettled Fëanor a bit.

He raised his glass in greeting and then gestured to the place by the fire that Fingolfin had taken before. He had set out a pair of glass tumblers beside a decanter full of deep red berry wine. Fingolfin took the chair opposite him instead of kneeling at his feet as he had done before and Fëanor smiled at the subtle move. Always one to push a little when he thought his brother was taking too much; Fingolfin was unpredictable, a summer storm amidst his father’s steady halls. It was why they were here, and Fëanor was holding his half-kin’s secret so delicately in the palm of his hand. Fingolfin was a knife ready to press into his spine at the slightest provocation. No amount of prostrating and forced affection could convince him otherwise. 

Lust was not love, not really. It was a bodily mechanism easily manipulated in Fëanor’s sculptor hands. He was a master of molding. 

Fingolfin would have been content to sit in silence, but silence made Fëanor uneasy. He leant forward and offered Fingolfin a full flute with a raised eyebrow and he took it with only the slightest hesitance. Fingolfin did not trust him, but the feeling was mutual, and why should they trust each other after their tumultuous history? 

“I only wanted to have a drink with you, _brother._ ” He knew the term would jar Fingolfin. He watched as Fingolfin tipped back his glass and drained it, all the while, keeping his eye on Fëanor. When he held out the flute, Fëanor filled it again to the brim. His half-brother was flush with nervous energy despite that smooth expression. 

“Is that really all?” 

“I am hurt that you see nothing beyond me but cruelty.”

“You have shown me nothing but cruelty,” Fingolfin countered. 

Fëanor could not argue against that sentiment but still he raised an eyebrow and filled his own cup once more. They would be thoroughly in their cups before this conversation ended, that was certain. His eyes drifted down to the robe Fingolfin had pulled on, undone at the neck and open midway to his chest. It was uncouth, even for siblings if that was what they truly were. 

He sniffed, looking away to the window where the ocean still roared. How his father could stomach the noise of this place was beyond him. Why not their winter court, hidden deep within the forest? Why had he staked this his stronghold? His mother had loved that green land of his childhood, had often walked barefoot through the pastures, or so said the few tales he had heard from his wet-nurse and her maids. 

“I seek to soften things between us,” He said it calmly, not through gritted teeth by some miracle. The laugh that erupted from Fingolfin snapped his gaze back, and he found his half-kin trying to contain his laughter behind a hand. His flute sat empty on the table between them, and so Fëanor once more filled it nearly to spilling. He would have Fingolfin listing before the night was through, and too drunk to erupt into mocking laughter. 

“I am sorry, Fëanor,” Fingolfin said once his laughter had calmed. 

He swallowed thickly beneath Fingolfin’s laughter and closed his robe at the neck, straightening his shoulders, and smoothing his face once more. 

“But it is not like you to sue for peace. Your history is too ripe with hatred for me,” Fingolfin sat back in his long-backed chair, accepting the filled glass. His expression turned pensive. 

“It’s just that, I am all so aware of what I represent for you. You have not let me forget it. The moment I began to walk as a child, I understood that I was a sour memory for you, that I was unnatural in your eyes. Something like that is not easily set aside after a century.” The honesty was in Fingolfin’s nature, but the impact of his words was slightly unnerving for Fëanor. He had never sat and contemplated on the _why_ of his deep rooted hatred for his half-sibling, only that it was something that was not easily uprooted. It had grown into a gnarled and tangled vine inside his heart. And he had tended that root daily for as long as he could remember. Fingolfin to him was a misplaced line in a story. He was never meant to play a part in Fëanor’s tome of ventures. 

“I always pitied your darkness.” 

“That is enough,” He snarled, noting the fine flush creeping its way up Fingolfin’s neck, the way his body relaxed into his chair. His words and demeanor had become too loose, and it flamed the fury in Fëanor. He had not invited Fingolfin to bear his scorn, rather to tame it, form it into something that he could control. 

“But I also admire you,” Fingolfin murmured and Fëanor looked at him with tilted expression. Fingolfin set his drink aside and leaned his elbows on his knees, his eyes imploring, deep and serious. 

“Why must we fight?” 

For once, the words did not form easily on Fëanor’s lips, and Fingolfin took the upper hand and kept it. “My only wish was ever to gain your confidence, and to please you…” The wine had made liquid of Fëanor’s body, and the room was in sharp focus, Fingolfin’s face the sharpest of all, but surely he had not drunk enough to take leave of his senses. He sat back in his chair, hands sliding against the velvet arms of it as Fingolfin came to kneel before him. 

“What would please you?” Fingolfin asked, and the ocean in his eyes swelled and crashed and Fëanor pulled at the collar of his robe, his body suddenly engulfed in fire. This was what he had invited Fingolfin here for wasn’t it? He had wanted to test the limit of Fingolfin’s love for him, pull at its edges and discern where it would give way and where it would remain unyielding. 

He reached out, touching Fingolfin’s chin, holding it in his hand and tilting his face to the light of the fire. He had such a soft face, it was almost delicate. His half-kin looked more like Indis than their father, the same clear blue eyes. 

Of course, he and Fingolfin’s hair was the same deep black of the night sky and perhaps they shared the same straight, proud nose, but that was where the similarities ended. Neither was quite their father’s child. Fingolfin’s sisters had more of Finwë than them. They both favored their respective mothers. He was glad for that when he pulled Fingolfin forward by the chin. It settled that storm in his chest that Fingolfin was not wholly his kin, nor had he ever thought of him so. Fingolfin moved with the tug, hands bracing themselves against Fëanor’s knees. 

“This would please me,” Fëanor murmured. “Tonight at least.” Yes, the wine had made him take leave of his senses, but it seemed as if Fingolfin had taken leave of his as well. Fingolfin’s fingers slid against his thighs and curled, his face leaning closer, a question in his gaze. 

He leaned down and placed his lips to Fingolfin’s parted mouth. The kiss was firm and Fingolfin pushed forward, eager for it. He hadn’t thought much of their first kiss. It had come on such a sudden whim and the anger in him had been so sharp that he had thought of nothing but revenge for the turmoil Fingolfin had made of his mind since his birth. He deepened the kiss then, enjoying the feel of Fingolfin’s pliant mouth, the taste of tart wine and shame on his tongue. 

“I would please you,” Fingolfin murmured when they pulled apart. His pupils had blotted out the blue and Fëanor could do nothing but guide him down, his fingers caught up in dark hair. Fingolfin’s mouth was honeyed with praise. “I have always thought you noble-” Fëanor’s body shuddered with excitement, fingers pulling at the dark waters of Fingolfin’s locks. 

“Tell me more,” He whispered. There was a certain power that came with having someone kneel willingly at his feet, praises on their lips. He had never thought Fingolfin would submit so easily to him. He had anticipated a fierce struggle. And yet all it had taken was a bit of wine, and an invitation. Fingolfin was absolutely riddled with rot. 

“I have always looked up to you,” Fingolfin murmured, fingers pulling at the strings of his leggings as Fëanor watched him steadily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There were times I wanted to _be_ you.” 

“Well that’s not unusual,” _With elder brothers_ , the words hung between them, unsaid, but if he thought the insinuation would discourage Fingolfin, he was wrong. Fingolfin had gotten his leggings undone and when he dipped his hand inside, Fëanor pressed his hips forward encouragingly. 

“I was often captivated by your strength,” Fingolfin’s voice had dropped low and when he curled his fingers around his cock, Fëanor tilted his head back against the chair, body lilting with the pleasure, with the pure seduction of Fingolfin’s mouth. 

“Your raw talent,” Fingolfin whispered. “Your ability to capture a room with a glance.” Fëanor felt the warmth of Fingolfin’s breath over the head of his cock and he closed his eyes tight, trying to bring forth the image of Nerdanel, but she remained safely behind her stone gods, clothed and out of reach. 

Fingolfin took him into his mouth and Fëanor released a soft breath. When he opened his eyes, it was Fingolfin who knelt degrading himself before him, it was Fingolfin’s mouth against his cock. He curled his fingers in the wet strands of Fingolfin’s hair and pulled him forward, his body shuddering with pleasure. All he could see was black as Fingolfin’s eyes flitted up and caught on him as he took him down his throat. 

“You’ve done this before,” He quipped, watching the careful way Fingolfin sucked him, fingers stroking in time with the bobbing of his head. It was lewd and base and everything he had always wished on his half-kin. He jerked the hand that was caught in his hair and pulled Fingolfin closer, forcing him to take more of him, and Fingolfin finally choked, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He found himself nearing, and was pleased when Fingolfin only obliged him, fingers digging into his thighs as he worked quicker. 

“So eager to finish me,” Fëanor said low, body shuddering as he looked down his nose at his father’s whelp, his perfect little puppet, on his knees for _him_. The pleasure pierced him somewhere mean and dark and then it was too much. He released down Fingolfin’s throat, holding the back on his head in a desperate clutch, his breath ragged. He let Fingolfin pull away after a moment so that he could breathe, but the damage had been done. 

His half-brother sat back on his knees, the back of his hand against his mouth. His hair was a wild, wet tangle about his reddened face, and his eyes were still as black as his own, nothing but blown pupil. Fëanor laughed when he saw the bulge beneath Fingolfin’s robes. But he only tucked himself away and re-laced the ties of his leggings.

When he kicked his boots down to the floor and stood, Fingolfin did not move, only knelt, his face tilted up, seeming neither angry nor shamed at his ruined state. Fëanor bent, the long fall of his hair brushing Fingolfin’s cheek as he tilted his face up. 

Fingolfin’s lips were red and wet from his abuse, and for a moment, he wanted to take it further, to debase him even deeper. He knew now that his half-brother wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to throw coins down at his feet and treat him like an object. But he’d inflicted his damage and it settled the storm in his chest for a time. 

“How do I taste on your tongue?” He whispered, watching as Fingolfin parted his lips, as if he were expecting a kiss, straining for one. His bottom lip was bleeding again. Fëanor laughed and pushed his face away with his fingers before turning and leaving without a backwards glance. 

He did not wish to see Fingolfin looking after him with those ocean blues, kneeling after the storm that was him, more perfect than any stone god Nerdanel could create. Fingolfin was beautiful but beauty meant nothing in a world already ripe with gold. Fëanor had his pick of the lot, and now his brother, who had tied himself to him by a noose. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Love was a strange thing. It twisted one up inside, rearranged and pushed until there was no room for anything but its all consuming breadth. Now that he’d been left with the taste of Fëanor on his tongue, Fingolfin’s body strained for more. The house had settled after his brother’s departure, a hollowed and burnt structure now that a flame had passed through it. Only the sea still roared, and it sounded like the depths of his chest. 

The long hours that had passed whilst Fingolfin laid in his bed, salt still sitting on his lips, and the smell of fire forge still in his clothes had been akin to sweating out a sickness. There should have been shame in him, he should have been bathed in it, and yet, there was only a sense of longing. He had knelt because that was the only love Fëanor would ever accept from him. It was the only way that he could temper the burning in his chest. 

And perhaps…perhaps he had enjoyed the immorality of it all. The _disgrace._

He had been nothing but honorable beneath each barb, had taken each hate-filled gesture from Fëanor with tilted chin. 

And it was with a set jaw that he accepted his brother’s wedding invitation. The binding ceremony was to be held in their father’s halls. So soon after what had transpired between them; it was as if Fëanor could not wait to wash him from his body, or perhaps it was deeper than shame. Perhaps it was darker.

Fingolfin sat away from the wedding party, wrapping the end of his robe sash around his finger, his eyes glancing in stolen moments at the pair; Fëanor shining in robes of deep claret, his dark hair braided with gold. He was a god amongst his own people. And Nerdanel, with autumn caught in her hair, and a face that was too kind for Fëanor. She had stars dusted on her cheeks. 

Fingolfin understood then why she had been chosen, and it was as if Fëanor had driven a nail through his chest with the heavy end of his hammer. He had made a forge of Fingolfin’s heart. He dropped his eyes when they were bound, their hands clasped and twined with silk. The crowd around them erupted into shouts and laughter and he felt a hand at the back of his neck. 

“I pity her,” Írimë murmured near his ear. Her fingers tightened at his nape. “No one can tame that fire.” 

“She has fire in her hair,” Was all he whispered back. 

As the night wore on, the wine flowed, and the dances circled the courtyard, and Fingolfin watched Fëanor wending his way through the crowd, his neck full of blue and white larkspur strung together. Nerdanel had the blue flowers wound in a crown about her hair. The damnable flowers were strewn about the tables and stone courtyard. When he put one under his nose, it held no scent. 

“Pretty are they not?” A soft voice startled him, and when he turned, he was looking into eyes of the darkest grey. They reminded him of the turbulent waters of his childhood, when the blue waters had begun to churn beneath a storm. A woman leaned on the table beside him, holding one of the flowers, her dark hair braided with a scattering of the white ones. 

“Deadly if you happen to eat them,” She laughed, and when she dropped the flower onto the table between them, her fingers were red where the flower had touched her skin. “Poisonous flowers are an odd choice for a wedding.” 

“My brother is an odd creature,” Fingolfin said, turning away, his gaze searching for his lost flame. Fëanor had disappeared, likely off to the bedchamber with his bride. The seed that came from this night would be a threat to his already unstable position. Fëanor would push any son or daughter he made with his new wife into their father’s line of sight, and claim them more legitimate than Fingolfin and his siblings. 

He laughed into his cup of wine, uncaring that the woman beside him probably thought him mad. The bitterness of the wine settled on his tongue as he remembered the night he had knelt at Fingolfin’s feet and pledged his loyalty. 

All things were a threat in his brother’s eyes, every being with the blood of Indis running through their veins was a cause for war. And all because she had decided to love their father in his time of widowhood. He swirled the wine in his cup, watching his reflection ripple on the surface, watery and red as blood, and always sullen. With great love would he allow his own children to play beside the heirs of Fëanor. He wished for them to grow as close as brothers, but kinder to one another than he and Fëanor had been. He would teach his children patience and love and to shun such behavior as Fëanor had shown him. 

“It is my greatest wish,” He murmured, setting his cup down on the table before him. 

“What is, my lord?” The woman beside him asked, and when he looked up, he realized how pretty those storm-grey eyes were, and the little tilt of her lips that spoke of such happiness. 

“Fingolfin,” He said, shaking the grief from his shoulders. He reached a hand out to her, and she took it, covering the back of his hand warmly. 

“Anairë,” She greeted him.

The season that Fëanor decided to lay down his sword and make a show of peace, his child was already walking. He scooped him into the circle of his arms, and held him at the hip as he entered Fingolfin’s home. His wife knocked the snow from her boots behind him. His son had the same fire in his hair and his spirit as his mother, and Fëanor ruffled his hair now, his chest full for the first time since before his own mother had been laid to rest. He could create beauty out of more than stones he realized, and he would hone that beauty for his line alone. 

It pleased him to see the surprise on his half-kin’s face at his arrival, and the uneasiness on his wife’s. Anairë’s belly was swollen, and she held it with both hands as Indis had once done in his presence, as if he was a danger to her and her unborn child. He nearly erupted into laughter at the gesture. He was no threat to their brood when his own line was now so securely bound. 

His gaze passed over Fingolfin, and though his gaze was no longer cold, there was a new feeling there when he saw his half-kin, waiting in the shadows for him. Fingolfin bent his head in greeting, the silver circlet on his brow gleaming in the candlelit halls. They had never clasped one another as brothers, and still they remained removed beneath the eyes of others. Love was a distant emotion for Fëanor when he looked down at his half-brother, but he understood the affection that Fingolfin held for him. It was a weakness, that kneeling, those wanton glances, and Fëanor fed them as he would a faithful hound. He would make certain that Fingolfin would remain loyal, and his own heirs secure in their father’s line. 

“I did not prepare rooms,” Fingolfin said, and Fëanor felt Nerdanel’s fingers clasp his arm and squeeze in rebuke. He had not wanted to give Fingolfin the time to prepare, to school his temperament into something pleasant and digestible. He wanted him scattered and fumbling. He wanted him as unpolished as he’d been that last night they’d been together. He would have him bare or not at all. He slipped his arm from his wife’s grasp and began to divest himself of his heavy furs without a word of explanation, and the household began to turn about him as if they were spokes on a wheel and he the center. 

_“You are the brightest star,”_ His father had often told him in childhood, tucking the blankets beneath his chin. _“In a sky full of darkness.”_

A room was made ready, a dinner hastily prepared and brought to his little family, and once Maedhros was put to bed and Nerdanel soothed with her bare feet kicked up by the fire, Fëanor moved to slip away, prepared to take care of the business at hand. Nerdanel clutched at his fingers, tugging him back, and he looked down at the liquid amber of her eyes, the deep furrow of her brow. 

“You have not spoken to your brother in years,” She said seriously, her fingers rubbing at the garnet against his thumb. They had made many fine things together, the finest, the child sleeping in the bed behind them, and together they would make many more fine jewels and children alike. Already he felt the child growing within her. He would make between them an army worthy of Valinor. He knelt by her chair, looking up into her face, their hands clasped between them. He knew no other devotion than the one he had lain at her feet, for the gifts she provided him. 

“Tell me, why now do you visit his halls?” 

“He is my brother,” He said, and somewhere the sentiment rang true, but for reasons he had kept from even the keeper of his heart. She would not understand his reasons, she would not hold his darkness gently. “He is my family.” He pulled his hands from her grasp and left her before the prying of her honeyed gaze could pull a truth from his mouth. 

He was not taken aback when Fëanor sought him out. He had known his brother would come looking for him and so Fingolfin had set up camp in the library to keep his wife from prying. Letters were useless between them now. They understood their game too well. 

“You built your home by the sea,” Fëanor’s deep, velvet voice brought the hair on the back of his neck to standing. He glanced over the rim of the book he had been pretending to browse the last hour. He had read the same lines over and over again, the smell of forge in his nose. “You are the most predictable of your siblings.” 

“It is no secret that my family is akin to fish,” Fingolfin said and startled when Fëanor laughed loudly at his quip. 

“You are no wood elf,” Fëanor agreed, coming to sit on the edge of the table near Fingolfin. He crossed his arms over his lap, one hand clasping his wrist. Jewels glinted on the long, fine bones of his fingers, and Fingolfin knew that his brother had made each and every perfect stone by his own hand. 

“I confess, I never thought I would see you after-” He stopped short as Fëanor’s fingers curled against his palm, making a fist of his hand. “After our argument.” 

“Was that what it was?” Fëanor asked, and when Fingolfin tilted his eyes up, his brother was smiling, just an arrogant tilt of the lips in the corner, but a smile nonetheless. “We are family.”

“I have never heard you speak of me as such,” Fingolfin said softly, though he knew it was no kindness. There was always an underhanded insult hiding beneath his words. But Fëanor only tilted his head, his court braids sliding over his shoulder like braided silk. He wanted then to catch his hand in Fëanor’s hair, to feel the softness, and then to pull so that it was Fëanor with his head tilted back and fear in his eyes. He set his jaw and pushed the image away, knowing it was churlish and fanciful at most. 

Fëanor would cut his throat before his hand got halfway to his hair. He knew his brother well, and he knew that at that moment, he had a well-fashioned carving knife slid into the side of his boot. He used it for peeling fruit and for the table, and for skinning, and he would use it on Fingolfin if the fancy took him. 

“There is a first for everything, is there not?” Fëanor said carefully, his smile just as pristine and scrupulously molded. “I am creating a family of my own. Our boys will be kin-”

“And if I do not have a boy?”

“It is a boy,” Fëanor said with the utmost confidence. He leaned forward, catching his elbow against his knee. “You have ever sought to best me. You will try in this as well.” Fëanor tapped one lone finger against his knee, his black gaze on Fingolfin. The hair at the back of Fingolfin’s neck was raised once again, and a chill spread through his body at the challenge in his brother’s face. “But I have a map now, _brother._ ” 

“A map?” Fingolfin wondered aloud, his body tensing and then recoiling into his chair as Fëanor bent closer to him. 

“A map,” Fëanor repeated. He reached out then, and took a lock of Fingolfin’s hair between thumb and forefinger and then let it slide through his fingers slowly. 

“Will no deference convince you of my loyalty?” Fingolfin wondered, his brow creased as he looked up at Fëanor, wondering at the way his mind worked, the darkness that lingered in its depths. He chanced reaching out, his fingers brushing at Fëanor's sleeve, and was unsurprised when Fëanor pulled his arm back sharply. 

“Do not touch me so familiarly,” Fëanor hissed, and Fingolfin could not help the laugh that escaped his down-turned lips. Years ago he had bruised his knees for Fëanor. 

“I can still remember the taste of you on my tongue,” He said softly. “And yet you do not permit me to touch your sleeve.” He felt the hand in his hair before he could react, and then he was being pulled out of his chair with a rough tug. Fëanor’s breath was suddenly against the side of his face, heavy with wine and just as searing as he remembered. 

“You never learn.” Fëanor’s voice was a low rumble, hot with anger. Fingolfin felt the strength of the hand in his hair and did not resist. He looked up into Fëanor's face as his head was wrenched back and he could not dredge up the hatred he saw on his brother’s face. It did not exist in his own heart. 

He remembered the shove to his back when he was only a child, the way the stairs of their father’s house had come up to meet him. He’d nearly broken his neck, and when he had looked up, cheek bruised and bleeding, it had been Fëanor standing at the banister, contempt in his gaze. He had never told a soul about the time his brother had nearly murdered him. It was a secret he kept locked away, along with every dark desire of his heart. Because along with that secret lay Fëanor’s face looking down at him as he’d coughed up sea water from blue lips. Fëanor was a wavering flame, molten at the center, and he flickered and danced around Fingolfin so that he could never quite grasp him. 

He accepted the kiss with eyes closed, pinpoints of light bursting beneath his eyelids. He felt Fëanor push against his lips, canines cutting into his bottom lip, bruising him as he had done before, a mark he would have to endure for days after this encounter. It was as if Fëanor wanted him to rue his sins long after he was gone from his life. 

“I love you,” He gasped when Fëanor pulled away from him and accepted the slap to his face as he’d accepted the kiss. He touched the corner of his bleeding mouth with his tongue, but did not move to wipe it away. 

“Do not speak such filth to me,” Fëanor growled, his eyes flitting over his face, and there was a desperate fear there. Did Fingolfin frighten him so much? That he could not sway Fingolfin’s affection with pain must have driven him mad. 

“There can be no love between enemies,” Fëanor hissed, and when he moved his hand, Fingolfin was forced to move as well until his hips collided with the desk, pushing it so that it moved across the floor in a shrill screech. He braced himself against the desk with both hands, his breath coming fast, his face and neck flushed red with fear and desire. 

Fëanor did not understand that though he loved him, he would never trust him. And in that, he would always remain in his own power despite who knelt for whom. He felt Fëanor reach under him, struggling with the sash of his robes, pulling it free, and then manipulating the heavy cloth over his hips as he was pressed down to the desk. He lay his cheek against the warm wood, his gaze drifting over the towering stacks of dusty history all around them, and listened to Fëanor unbelting. His heart was a drum in his ears, and when his brother’s hands pulled at his hips, his fingers curled against the desk in anticipation. 

“I will not force you,” Fëanor said, his lips close to the curve of his ear. He felt him hard and waiting behind him, and he shuddered, tongue moistening his bruised lips. 

“You only mean to disgrace me,” He said. “But that you can never do.” He felt the hand in his hair again, pulling his head back so that he could barely swallow against a dry throat. And yet he pressed back as he felt Fëanor make quick work of preparing him and then entered him with a rough shove. His hands braced against the edge of the desk, nails gouging at the wood. There was pleasure and there was pain, and there was darkness deep in his heart as Fëanor took him. 

He pushed back against the rugged thrusts, rocking the desk beneath him, his hair pulled like the reigns of a horse. An animal. It was what Fëanor had always likened him to. And still he wanted to please and his cock leaked against the desk, nails scratching indents into the ancient cedar. 

When Fëanor pressed his fingers into his mouth, he took them, and when the pleasure became piercing, he bit down against the pad of Fëanor’s thumb. “Shameless,” Fëanor hissed against his ear. “What would father think if he knew how depraved you were.” His words came in hard, harsh pants against his ear and Fingolfin’s brow knitted as he twisted his head away, muffling his own moans against his arm. Not a word would ever slip into the ear of their father. Fëanor was too careful for that. It took two to defile a family’s name and honor in the precise way that they had. 

Fingolfin no longer stood alone with a dark stain upon his brow. 

When Fëanor was finished, he left Fingolfin half bare and ruined, his robes ripped away from his shoulders, his mouth and thighs blooming with bruises. He imagined he looked as if he’d been set upon by wolves. He lay bent over the desk, breathing harshly, his cheek still throbbing from Fëanor’s hand. Fëanor had left him with no way to explain the abuse to his body. To his wife, he would speak half-truths. They had fought as brothers do, over the one thing that Fëanor loved and respected nearly as much as his own creations- the love of their father, and his place in his heart. 

Fingolfin watched them play, ducking behind trees, their laughter like music flitting through Anairë’s gardens. Fëanor’s eldest was a bright flame amongst the rows of flowers, and trailing behind him was his own dark jewel, and it struck him somewhere deep in his chest, the way Fingon tilted his face in adoration to his cousin. He emulated Maedhros as he himself had once mimicked Fëanor. But where Fëanor had nurtured hatred, Maedhros was gentle and even protective of Fingon. It settled an uneasiness inside him to see the ordinariness in their play. 

Maedhros was lucky in his inheritance. Nerdanel had bestowed upon him kindness and a just nature to temper the fire of his father. Fëanor’s second son sat beside him as they peered over the balcony balustrade, hair twisted over his shoulder in a heavy braid, as dark as his own, with an even gentler spirit than his beloved Fingon. Perhaps Fëanor’s line had been tempered by Nerdanel and that spoke well of the future. Already Nerdanel was swelling with child again so soon after the birth of yet another son, his head full of gold. Fëanor had boasted of the pregnancy to him, and of his plans for a family that would rival any seen in Valinor. 

_“Are you building an army?”_ Fingolfin had said in jest, his mouth stained with his brother’s jealous kisses. It was as if they were playing a game of chess, and the pieces were their heirs. When Fingon had been born, Fëanor had already been working on another child, and so it would go between them for many decades. Soon their halls would be filled with unruly children. 

_“Now where would you get an idea like that?”_ Fëanor had asked, a long smile on his face. There had been a strange light in the dark depths of his eyes as he’d stood over Fingolfin’s naked body, a lion who’s roar was as vicious as his bite. 

He passed a hand beneath the high collar of his robe, over the finger marks against the side of his neck. Fëanor often left his children in his care during his and his wife’s travels, but before he left, he always made sure to leave his mark on Fingolfin, to remind him of where he stood. It was a ritual they had carried on between them since Fingolfin had sworn his secret oath in the privacy of Fëanor’s chambers. 

But he would not allow his sons to be the enemy of their cousins. He had brought Fëanor’s sons close to him, perhaps a mistake on Fëanor’s part. 

“How are your lessons going these days, Maglor?” He asked, his gaze trekking Fingon as he wended his way through the garden maze, the gold ribbons in his hair glinting in the dark. He trusted Maedhros with his son, but the boy was still the blood of Fëanor. There was still too much fire in his gaze. He had instilled caution and strength beneath Fingon’s gentleness in the hopes that he would not follow in his father’s footsteps. 

Blood was thick, but their line was too full of secrets for Fingolfin’s comfort. 

“Father has set another tutor in my chambers,” Maglor said, his voice soft. “The fifth one this year. He dismisses them when they displease him.” He had a musical tone, a talent that Fëanor honed like his skill for smithing. His children were tools that must be carefully sculpted for their chosen craft. 

“Your father expects perfection in all areas of his life.”

When he turned to Maglor, the boy had a seriousness in his face that made him seem older than his scarce years. He was rarely seen rough-housing with the other children, and a knowing settled over Fingolfin. He had lived beneath a roof of grief with Fëanor, had strove for decades to be more in his eyes than a pawn. Perhaps Fëanor’s children had been dealt the same fate. His hand drifted to Maglor’s braid and he tugged it just to see the small smile tuck into the corner of his mouth. 

“Go and fetch your brother for dinner.” 

“Yes, Uncle,” Was the soft reply. 

They were nearly a family beneath all the cracks and fissures and rot. 

They were all of them unaware of his presence as he stood in the entryway. His sons were at ease in his brother’s home. His eldest sat close to Fingon, playing a game of childish hands beneath the long dining table and at intervals, sharing bits of food from each other’s plates. Fëanor felt an age-old anger at the easiness of their friendship, and of the way Maglor sat in close conversation with Fingolfin’s wife. He had allowed Fingolfin to knit together the rents that had been torn in the fabric of their family over the years, but it had not been without misgivings. It vexed him to give Fingolfin the upper-hand in this, but he kept hold of his brother in other, more important ways. 

He did not disturb their space, instead he melted back into the darkness of the hallway, their upraised voices following him to the rooms his brother kept for him now. He left word with Fingolfin’s house maid that he had arrived and settled in to wait. 

It was nearing midnight when Fingolfin entered, and as Fëanor had hoped, his face was flushed from a good draught of wine. Behind him came the serving girl, carrying a tray filled with the leavings of dinner, and a decanter filled with whatever had flushed Fingolfin’s face so prettily. She left the tray on the bedside table without glancing at Fëanor. Her eyes remained pointed to the floor, an astute girl. She closed the door tightly behind her. 

“ _Brother_ ,” He smiled thinly in greeting as Fingolfin looked about the bedroom as if lost, his hands hidden in the folds of his robe. Rarely did they start the night off with a bed between them. “Sit,” He instructed with a thrust of his chin, and Fingolfin lowered himself slowly to sit on the bed by his feet as if this were not his home but Fëanor’s. Fëanor looked over the platter of food with disinterest, his hands reaching for the wine cask instead. 

“It has been long since we’ve sat in conversation with one another.”

“It is rare that we ever do so,” Fingolfin said, and Fëanor’s eyes glanced up sharply, a small laugh escaping him. He delighted in Fingolfin’s blunt honesty; it infuriated and excited him in turns. Most bowed their heads around him, scraping the floor like puppets. His brother was another pawn in his game, but not without difficulty. Fingolfin kept the game interesting between them. He fought against him in subtle ways, forcing Fëanor’s hand at intervals, but despite this, Fingolfin would always be at Fëanor’s mercy. Eru Ilúvatar had not created them equal. 

Fingolfin must be reminded of this fact quite often it seemed. 

“Your wife did not accompany you?”

“She is near to bursting,” Fëanor said with a laugh, his gaze trekking over Fingolfin for a reaction, but his half-kin nearly nodded. “She is not fit for travel so near the birth of our son and so she has stayed behind with her father. Celegorm is still a babe in her arms and she will not risk his health. She is a lioness with our boys.” Fëanor settled back against the headboard of his bed, his chest swelling with pride. 

“You are so certain it is another son?” 

“I will have nothing but sons,” He concluded, setting the wine decanter down hard on the tray. He lifted his wine cup to his lips, his heart thudding in excitement. It always lit a fire in his heart when Nerdanel bent to whisper into his ear that another child had been conceived between them. 

“Another son for you as well perhaps?” 

“That is in Eru Ilúvatar’s hands,” Fingolfin said softly. 

“Such humbleness,” Fëanor sneered. He knew very well that Fingolfin’s wife was full with child as if to challenge him once again. It was all very well, it had already been seen that his brother’s seed was weak. Though their children were bonded, it was Maedhros who took the lead, and Fingon that followed. It would always be so with Indis’ blood. There was too much water there, not enough fire. 

“Did you bring me here only to insult me?” Fingolfin asked and when Fëanor looked over the rim of his wine glass and smiled, Fingolfin did not look away. There was such intensity in Fingolfin’s gaze, rarely did he truly smile. 

“But you are such fun to tease,” Fëanor chuckled. 

“Do you wish for me to leave?”

“Nay,” Fëanor answered sharply. He tipped back his wine and drained the glass in one long swallow. 

“Then do you wish for me to undress so that you may attempt to shame me? That seems to be a favorite pastime of yours.” Fingolfin’s tone was soft, but there was an angry lilt to it that reminded Fëanor of the darkness that often settled in his chest when he was in his half-kin’s presence. It was an irritating lead weight that would not let up until he inflicted some sort of pain on Fingolfin, and even then, it would always return in some form later on. 

“Why would I want that?” Fëanor said slowly. He felt the wine threading through his veins, the anger coming up in his throat like a vile sickness. Something inside of him would not allow him to be gentle with Fingolfin. To be gentle would be to admit weakness, and _that_ he could not risk. “I’ve already had you. Your stain is visible for all of Arda to see.” 

“The same stain that you wear?” Fingolfin wondered. 

It took less than a second for Fëanor to throw the empty wine glass. It sailed past Fingolfin’s head, barely missing his cheek and shattered against the mantle of the fireplace behind him. And yet Fingolfin did not flinch, his gaze was steel as Fëanor crossed the bed and took hold of his neck. He did not squeeze, merely held the tender flesh in his shaking hand, his breath coming fast as if he’d run the length of the room. Anger felt like a storm blowing throughout his body, and his hand itched to close, to drain the very life from his half-brother.

“If you breathe one word-”

“I have kept every one of our secrets,” Fingolfin said carefully. His face was smooth, the ocean in his eyes calm and deep blue. 

_Our secrets._

It felt too intimate, those words, like a history only they knew, a history that only they could carry between them. He hated those words with every fiber in his trembling body. He would share nothing so intimate with Fingolfin. What he took from him in the form of flesh was his dignity. It was not love or true intimacy. 

“I will show you that love and revenge cannot exist in the same space,” He said softly, his breath harsh against Fingolfin’s lips. 

“Is that what this is?” Fingolfin whispered, a small smile tilting the corner of his mouth. That smile flared the rage in him hotter. “Revenge that I did not die that morning you pushed me down the stairs? Or perhaps the day you saved me from the sea? Or maybe revenge for my very birth?” 

His hand did close then, very slightly so that Fingolfin gasped with the movement and then sucked in a long breath. He watched the fear slowly transform his soft features. His eyes were no longer a calm sea, but deep churning waters that threatened to drown him. 

And yet beneath the fear, there was still lust, and it was Fingolfin who surged forward against his hand. He could feel the excited bounding of Fingolfin’s pulse against his palm as his mouth was caught in a harsh kiss. It was Fingolfin himself who tore open his robe and shed it before working his fingers into the buttons of Fëanor’s tunic. 

“I prefer you like this,” He whispered when Fingolfin broke away from the kiss to let him breathe, his face flushed and his gaze hungry as he pushed his tunic aside. “Stinking of desperation.” Fingolfin’s hand slid against his naked chest and his body shuddered at the touch. 

“We smell the same, brother,” Fingolfin murmured. Anger was now indistinguishable from lust and when Fëanor grabbed at the long fall of Fingolfin’s hair and pulled, there was a smile in the corner of Fingolfin’s lips.

“You enjoy baiting me,” He growled. 

“I like the way your face turns red,” Fingolfin agreed, fingers sliding up his tense forearm to grasp his wrist tightly. “The way the dragon in you rears up to burn me.” 

He groaned at the words, surging forward and flattening Fingolfin against the bed, his hips pushing against him. He was near to bursting, and when Fingolfin’s hands began to unlace his leggings and maneuver them out of the way, he was clay. 

He had meant to rile Fingolfin into a state and then dismiss him. 

He had meant to shame him. 

And so why was he once again between his brother’s legs?

“What I enjoy is having you here,” Fingolfin whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands framing Fëanor’s sweating face. He pushed in deep and felt Fingolfin’s thighs tighten around his waist. “So deep inside me, you can think of nothing else.” Fëanor twisted his face away and buried his groans into hair that smelled faintly of seasalt. His fingers curled into the sheets beside Fingolfin’s hair as he took his pleasure, rocking Fingolfin’s body roughly, his thrusts desperate, his mind filled with the hazy touch of lust.

There were many ways to kill someone without spilling blood.

_Depraved._

_Corrupt._

Their bloodline was poison. 

He lay panting when it was done, waves of exhaustion rolling over his body. He had thrown an arm over his face, but he could feel Fingolfin’s naked warmth near him. He had not thrown him out, or berated him, or made him kneel in shame. He felt Fingolfin’s hair strewn across his collar bone, black silk, dark ocean tendrils. 

“Why did you save me?” Fingolfin asked softly. His voice was always so soft, low timbered and smoky. “You don’t save people you hate.”

“You were a child,” Fëanor muttered. Stars burst behind his eyelids as he pressed his forearm against his face, tensing at the memories Fingolfin always pulled from the dark depths of his mind.

“Children grow up.”

_Not if you don’t want them to._

“You are my father’s son, whether I wish it or not,” He said, the words pushed through clenched teeth. 

“You feel that our father’s love was lessened for you,” Fingolfin continued, and Fëanor took his arm away from his face so that he could look at his half-kin. Fingolfin was gazing to the murky ocean, sitting calm outside his open window. “As if he did not have enough to go around, as if the love you recieved wasn’t given back tenfold from me.” Fëanor’s brow creased, and something uncomfortable curled in his chest. It was the tug of guilt he had felt on that beach when he’d pulled Fingolfin from the water, blue and breathless. 

“I am not your enemy.”

But he was, and he would remain so as long as breath still remained in his lungs. 

“Is this so easy for you because you do not truly see me as family?” Fingolfin’s voice was closer now, and when he looked down, Fingolfin had moved closer, and his gaze was tilted up, fingers brushing his arm so that his skin erupted in a cold shiver. “Or is it something else?” 

One day he was going to drown in all that deep blue. 

“I have never understood you,” Fëanor muttered, but he did not tell him to leave, and for the first time, they slept in the same bed, their backs to one another, sweat and sex lingering on their skin.

“You seek to soften me.” 

“I seek nothing of the sort.” Fingolfin smiled, tightening the harness on his best horse. 

His brother enjoyed riding without harness, but it was a long road back to his halls, and perhaps he _was_ seeking to temper him for their next meeting. “Think of it as a gift to soften the hard ride home. She was bred for the sand, she will go lightly.” He stroked the neck of the mare, dark as Fëanor’s bound hair. He had watched that morning as one of Fëanor’s own maid servants had set Fëanor’s braids for him and placed his circlet upon his brow. A strange thought had come to him as he sat watching the ritual, eating breakfast on the balcony, still only half-robed from the night before. The maid servant had said nothing upon finding them in the same room; his staff were notoriously tight-lipped, afraid of Fëanor’s spit-fire temper surely. 

He had wanted to set the braids himself. 

As a lover.

The thought had given him pause, and then a stone had dropped itself into Fingolfin’s stomach. The thought had been more inappropriate than what they had done in his bed the night before, what they continued to do upon each furtive meeting. Why else would Fëanor travel so far, to the ocean he despised? To torture the brother he despised just as equally. 

“Nothing can soften fire,” He said under his breath as his hand slipped from the horse’s harness. Not even the endless ocean could quell the spirit inside Fëanor; it was a hypnotizing blaze, too molten for Arda, too deadly. It burned everything it touched. 

“Send Maedhros during the summer festivities,” He said louder, watching as Fëanor mounted the horse with one smooth motion. He sat tall and proud, and when he looked at Fingolfin it was down his nose, his eyes sharp flints of onyx. He was beautiful against the smooth dark mare, a gift worthy of such power. 

“Fingon speaks of nothing but his cousin when he is away.” 

Fëanor sniffed, ignoring the request. He held no close relations with his nieces and nephews, but he knew that for the love of his eldest, he would send him come the warm months, and Fingolfin would continue to knit together the invisible ties that now bound Fëanor’s children to his own family. It was a thing done carefully, and beneath Fëanor’s proud nose. He smiled as he patted the flank of the horse and watched his brother ride away from him once more. 

He would sow loyalty in his own way. 

That night as he sat letting Anairë unwind the coils of his hair, his gaze made shapes out of the fire in the grate, and each one seemed a different version of his brother, he could think of nothing else. It was always that way when Fëanor left him. His wife’s fingers were gentle against his temple, loosening the smaller braids. He saw in his mind the way Fëanor would always wrap the long ends of his hair around his fist and pull when the pleasure became too much. He tilted his head back into his wife’s hands, eyes closing as his body responded to the memory. 

“Your brother is a harsh creature,”Anairë whispered against the curve of his ear, and he swallowed hard, teeth working their way into the side of his cheek. “I do not understand why you allow him to command you in your own home. You are too gentle with him. He will think you weak.” She tugged the hair in her hand to bring his face about, and he only gave her a soft smile. 

“I am not the weak one,” He murmured, passing a hand over his neck beneath his high collar. He would have to hide the shape of Fëanor’s teeth for days. “I do not let my anger rule me.” There was a warm hum near his ear, neither agreement nor dissent. 

“The back of your neck turns red when you speak of him,” Anairë whispered. “He pierces your defenses whether you admit to it or not, but you are correct-” The backs of her long fingers brushed the side of his neck as she spoke. “You remain regal in your restraint. It must drive him mad.” 

He turned his face, so that she might not catch his face in the looking glass on her nightstand. She did not know of the truth of Fëanor’s violence and how often it was brought forth by his own stubbornness. She had discovered bruises in places where bruises were not meant to be found, and had remained regal in her own respect. One could not explain away the print of fingers upon a neck as a quarrel nor the mark of teeth against the inside of a thigh. Fëanor had placed each one carefully, perhaps hoping to drive a wedge between him and his wife. But she spoke in roses and her touch remained soft as the lilies in her gardens. 

He did not wish to bring his stain down upon her and so he patted her hand until she laid his uncoiled hair over his shoulder and left him sitting in front of her looking glass. Rarely did they touch except to create children between them. He carried too much shame to tarnish her. He wondered how Fëanor fared, and knew instinctively that he slept peacefully at night with Fingolfin’s kisses drying against his neck. The sons he continued to push forth were testimony to that. Nothing would keep him from his legacy, not even the ocean that ate patiently away at him. 

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Summer storms were always of the violent kind near the ocean. Fingolfin leaned against the cold stone of his balcony, watching the silvery lightning spidering across the darkened sky. The ocean was in a rage-the water had come nearly to his doorstep. The festivities had been forced inside early with the downpour and the house had finally quieted of the echoes of merrymaking but the stench of wine saturated every crevice and he was certain he would find the remnants of his revelers strewn about his halls if he went looking. 

A sharp clap of thunder on the tails of a streak of light brought his thoughts to the younger revelers that had graced the festivities, most notably his own son. Fingon was quite afraid of storms and had often slipped between him and his wife in their bed in the dead of night to escape the thunderous noise. He was too old for that now of course. He had even given Fingon a glass of wine that evening. 

“Only one,” He had said, serving his eldest nephew a pointed look. 

He was certain that Maedhros would follow his rules while beneath his roof and chastise Fingon for any misstep. Unlike Fëanor, Maedhros held him in great esteem and bent the copper crown of his head with each task he was given, and a “Yes, Uncle,” in proper fashion. It took little for Maedhros to bend a knee in front of him- the boy was a tree. 

And yet still, he found his feet leading him to his son’s chambers out of habit. Five of Fëanor’s sons slept beneath his roof, and he was always vigilant. He had been taken aback when Fëanor had deposited them all on his doorstep just as the summer heat had rolled in, lined by height with his youngest holding up the end, his eyes and hair dark as the storm raging outside. That one had too much of Fëanor in him. Something in the eyes made Fingolfin uneasy.

He had only meant to house Maedhros for the long summer months to help quell Fingon’s restlessness. His son was growing tall and reminded him of himself at that age, full of energy and wild ideas of valor. Maedhros wore him down in the yard, and the mornings were filled with the clang of their swords and rough-housing.

He did not tap his knuckles against the chamber door, it had been left ajar and the heated whispering beyond gave him pause. He peered into the slab of light falling across the floor and a smile tugged at his mouth. They were too old for it, but the children had pinned the sheets from their beds into a tent and he could see their shadows wavering against the light of a candle. He knew by their shapes that it was Fingon and Maedhros, the others were asleep, sprawled about the room, seemingly midplay. 

“It is only Ulmo in a rage,” Maedhros’ voice was a low and serious timber as he swept his hands above his head in a mimicry of the storm blowing outside. “When someone displeases him, he pushes the waves to shore, and the thunder is his voice, booming his displeasure across all of Valinor.” 

“Who has displeased him?” Fingon whispered, leaning forward, his shadow flickering and dancing against the sheets. 

“Mayhap his wife if he had taken one,” Maedhros said with a chuckle, and Fingolfin pressed the back of his hand to mouth to keep his laughter safely behind his lips. “I’ve heard women are that way. My father is always in a dark mood when my mother is displeased.”

“I will never take a wife,” Fingon said matter-of-factly. 

“You will think differently in a year or two.” There was a haughtiness to Maedhros’ voice, a little lord that had perhaps already had his first kiss. He was already a caregiver to his brothers, the first to round them up before a word had left Fingolfin’s lips. His nephew had been left with quite a brood to attend to when his parents were not around, and often they were not. 

Nerdanel was said to be in great distress over her latest pregnancy and she had been left bedridden these last summer months. Fingolfin had kept his worried thoughts to himself as was the usual protocol with his brother. Their pillow talk was often flippant, if they spoke at all when it was done between them. His thoughts were closed to even Anairë. It seemed blasphemous to speak them aloud. 

But he could not hide the truth from himself. His brother went too far with the creation of life, and he was afraid that he was stripping his wife’s fëa bare. Her children were strong, each laden with a bit of Fëanor’s destructive fire. Now that they were growing older beneath Fingolfin’s roof, he saw glints of his brother in their eyes and it worried him. Despite his gentle hand, something terrible often settled on his shoulders when they were near. 

“You should not be afraid, Káno,” Maedhros whispered.

Fingolfin’s hand curled around the frame of the door as he watched his son lean towards Maedhros, their heads bent close so that their foreheads nearly touched, and their whispers dropped so that he could not catch their words on the crackling summer air. 

Often now he was unsettled. 

_“There is only love in this house,”_ Anairë often said, as their children played about her feet, her hands kneading bread with gentle but firm fingers. Her cheeks were always flushed with color and she saved her smiles for Fingolfin despite his sullen moods. Guilt was a stone in his stomach that Fëanor had placed there so carefully. 

If only he could give to her the heart that Fëanor had stolen. 

Maedhros remained with them through the autumn months. The others had been called home to witness the birth of their brothers. 

_Brothers._

Two babes with heads of fire had been brought forth by Nerdanel, bearing the same face as the other. Two last jewels for the house of Fëanor. 

Fingolfin felt the last of his worries settle heavy in his chest as the trees were stripped bare for the incoming winter. His horse’s steps were muffled amongst the dried fallen leaves as it ambled through the forest. He could hear Fingon’s calls up ahead, in a mimic of the black birds that made their home beside the ocean. Beside him, his nephew rode, sitting tall and proud on a white stud, the very picture of Fëanor at his age. He was flush in his youth, a handsome boy there was no doubt, an adult by most standards. He had a bit of Fëanor’s proud beauty beneath Nerdanel’s rustic charm. The same dusting of freckles had made their home on his cheeks and when he smiled, which was often, Fëanor faded from his face. 

Somehow he was grateful for that. 

“Father will be here in two days,” Maedhros spoke, his voice had a rich, warm tone to it. Such a juxtaposition to his own son, who was dark of head and gaze, and musical in voice. They made quite the pair. “A message arrived this afternoon.” 

“Why did you not leave with your brothers?” Fingolfin wondered. 

He steered his horse to follow the path Fingon had taken on foot to catch their quarry. They would have rabbit stew tonight if the traps had been lucky, and a store of deer for the winter if Fingon was successful. They rode in silence for a time, with only the sound of dried leaves beneath their horse’s hooves. He thought Maedhros had ignored his question before a surprisingly confident answer came forth. Maedhros did not speak softly, but set each word down with purpose as Fëanor did. He was too alike in speech to his brother. 

“I worry after Fingon when I am away. It is easier when I am near.” 

Fingolfin’s brow knitted as he looked over at his nephew, who stared ahead, a golden circlet wound into the autumn braids at his temples. Rings of gold adorned hands that would have been suited to smithing if he had taken an interest in it. Though he ran wild with Fingon through the forest when he was free of his father’s steely grip, he had been brought up a little lord, and was never without the fine trappings of such a lifestyle. Bits of Fëanor clung to him despite Fingolfin’s hand in his childhood. 

He could not have asked for a better mentor for his son, but doubt still crept into his heart when he noticed his brother peek from the gentle folds of Maedhros’ upbringing. 

“What will you do when you have your own household?” _And you cannot run to Fingon’s side when he calls._ He could not keep the amused smile from his face as Maedhros cocked his shoulders back and tilted his chin a little, the very picture of Fëanor when challenged. He would make a good leader when it came for powers to be shifted. His own heirs had been quietly set aside by their father. There need not have been an announcement on the matter. 

“We have already come to an agreement between us,” Maedhros answered firmly. Maedhros’ amber gaze turned on him, liquid gold beneath the autumn colors. “We shall combine our houses if the time comes.” The words had been chosen carefully and Fingolfin caught on them curiously. He made a sound of assent, tucking his chin and raising an eyebrow as Maedhros looked away. 

It was a fanciful idea, more suited to the naivety of youth. Maedhros would marry first and with that move, he would drift away from his beloved cousin and Fingon would follow suit after a time, if only in mimic of his elder. He looked to Maedhros as a brother and did nothing if Maedhros had not done it first. But perhaps they would host festivities and dinners for their families as he had done with Fëanor for decades now. He hoped that for Fingon’s sake, Maedhros would be gentle with his disentanglement. 

“It is a comfort to me that you have led Fingon all these years-”

“He is my dearest friend.” The words came with a passionate weight. There was loyalty in those words, something that Fingolfin had been starved of with Fëanor as his kin. He hoped that their bond would not be tarnished by the curse of their fathers. 

  
  


“It pleases me to see this,” Fëanor’s breath was warm against his cheek, and a shiver slipped down Fingolfin’s naked spine as Fëanor drew the pad of his thumb down the side of his neck. He had left teeth marks that had already begun to bruise. 

“You are like a dog marking its territory,” He anticipated the tug to his hair, the way it forced him to tilt his face up to Fëanor. His fingers curled against his brother’s naked thighs where he sat. He waited for a slap, or a biting remark, but a low rumble of laughter fell from Fëanor’s mouth in its stead. 

“So I am,” He said, bringing his mouth close to Fingolfin’s lips. “Because you have been mine since your creation.” There was a certain perversion in Fëanor’s jealousy that turned Fingolfin’s stomach, but it was not enough for him to deny Fëanor his body. 

He tilted his hips, forcing Fëanor’s cock deeper and watched Fëanor’s brow pinch, his lips parting in a silent moan. He could not control his brother’s greed or his insatiable appetite for fame, but he could control him in this bed and plant seeds that would bloom in the spring. Those seeds he had sown carefully each night his brother lay between his thighs. 

He threaded his hands through the long fall of Fëanor’s unbound hair and tilted his brother’ head back for a kiss. He had never known Fëanor’s mouth to taste of anything but wine when they were together but tonight it tasted of fruit, sweet dates he had picked from the table that evening, and beneath that, dried apricot. Their sons had picked the fruit from Anairë’s orchard, Fingon sitting on Maedhros’ shoulders so that he could reach higher. His brow pinched as the memory seared through his own lust. Their sons did not belong in this twisted game of theirs. He nearly pulled away at the taste of the fruit. 

“What is it?” Fëanor wondered, lips glistening with Fingolfin’s kisses. 

For a moment, there was real concern on Fëanor’s face as Fingolfin held his face in his hands, thumbs running just under his hooded eyes. His eyes were so dark that light always flickered deep within them. Tonight it was the candles burning on the sideboard, and that old uneasiness made its home in Fingolfin’s stomach. 

“What is it?” Fëanor asked again in a heated whisper. He took Fingolfin’s hands from his face and Fingolfin suddenly found himself on his back, his head tipping from the edge of the bed so that his hair spilled to the floor. 

Once, Fëanor had wrapped the long ends of his hair around his fist during a quarrel. Fingolfin had been just on the verge of adulthood, flush with wine and anger, his tongue sharp as the sword Fëanor had placed near his fist, threatening to sheer his hair. The panic that had flooded his body then was akin to the panic he felt now. Fëanor had concocted many ways of shaming him. 

_“If you do it, I will kill you.” He had hissed._

_“You may try.” Fëanor had smiled then, the tip of his sword shearing only a lock of his hair so that it fell in a coil at his boots. And then Fëanor had let him go so that he had fallen to his hands and knees. He had gone rushing at Fëanor’s back, for the first time, letting his anger rule him, but Finarfin had grabbed at the collar of his tunic to hold him back before his fists could find their mark. Fëanor had not even glanced over his shoulder, so insignificant was Fingolfin’s rage._

It was the only time he had lost face before his brother. 

Fëanor would never again rile him to violence. 

There were many ways to weaken someone. To soften them. To turn them from their own rage. 

He lifted his head to press his mouth to Fëanor’s parted lips and kissed him deeply as Fëanor pressed between his thighs. He groaned into the kiss, his fingers digging into the soft skin of Fëanor’s back, clawing as Fëanor began to move roughly, his hips pressing deep. Pleasure was a hot well within his body as Fëanor desecrated his body. They had turned this sacred act into one of perversion, and Fingolfin could not draw concern from the deep well that had become his heart. He slid his hands into the long fall of Fëanor’s hair, so like his own, and drew his face down to him so that he could swallow Fëanor’s low groans of pleasure. 

“Fill me,” He whispered against Fëanor’s lips, knowing that he would mistake his words. He wanted so desperately for Fëanor to love him back, but flesh was all his brother knew. 

Fëanor’s lips tilted against his mouth, and his thrusts became rougher, pushing him nearer to the edge of the bed. He felt fingers slide against his throat, just under his chin. Fëanor’s face was a fine sheen of sweat and gloated power beneath the flickering of the wall sconces. And yet he was still beautiful, madly so. It made Fingolfin’s heart beat a wild tempo as he held onto Fëanor’s wrist and the air was cut from his throat. Pleasure swept through him sharply and then he was falling, his moans keening, and his gasps short as he tried to draw in breath. Fëanor followed him, cursing beneath his breath, hips shuddering from their steady rhythm. He felt warmth between his thighs, seeping into the fine sheets of Fëanor’s bed.

When it was done, Fëanor lay panting against him, his hand slipping from his throat. Fingolfin turned his face from the damp fragrance of Fëanor’s hair and watched as Fëanor’s hand curled against the bed sheets- the same hand that had wrapped around his throat, threatening violence. The same hand that had pushed him from the stairs, the same hand that had wound around his hair to sheer it in a public courtyard. Fëanor was a heavy weight against his chest, but he dare not move him, or tell him so. He was warm and close and Fingolfin liked him so. 

It was only when Fëanor rolled to the side did he move, making to leave the bed in a sudden urge to be away from the mess they had made. But Fëanor’s hand fell heavy to his naked thigh and kept him still. 

“Stay,” Fëanor said. “I’ll have a bath drawn up.” 

Fingolfin looked at him closely, but did not question his brother’s motives. They had slept together on the rare occasion, waking in the same bed after a night of passion. But it was still not a common occurrence. Fëanor liked to ruin him and then wash him from his body. Rarely did he linger to sit in conversation with Fingolfin. He knew it was because his brother thought him beneath him and a threat to his throne, hardly one to speak of matters of importance to. Fingolfin was only glad for the warmth of Fëanor near him, for the rare moments when the melding of flesh or violence was not the sole matter of importance between them. 

Fingolfin had pinned his hair away from his neck, and damp strands had fallen loose about his face beneath the steam of the bath. Fëanor had never seen his half-kin so. He was nothing but composed and kept his hair loose or in braids that were not suited to the court. He had a long elegant neck beneath the heavy curtain of his dark hair. He watched him bathing, drawing a wet cloth over his shoulders, down the gentle slope of his nape. 

“Was I your first?” The question brought Fingolfin’s gaze to Fëanor where he lounged at the edge of the large bathing pool. Fingolfin’s brow was pinched and the blue of his eyes was ocean deep tonight. Fëanor tilted his head and flicked his fingers so that Fingolfin handed over the cloth he’d been bathing with. The lye he had been using was mixed with bits of lavender, and the heady scent permeated the air around him, made him languid. 

“I do not understand.” 

“You do,” Fëanor smiled as he drew the cloth over his own neck, cleaning away the sweat and covering the scent of their corruption with sweetness. 

“Of course.” 

“Of course you understand or-”

“I was unwed when I first knelt for you,” Fingolfin hissed, and there was an angry fire now deep within the ocean of his eyes. It made Fëanor’s blood run hot. He drew the cloth down his chest as he gazed on Fingolfin, noting with amusement, the irate flush of his face, and the way his eyes were drawn down to his hand despite his anger. 

“You speak as if I forced you to kneel. I remember that night quite differently.” 

Fingolfin remained quiet with the truth upon his face. Fëanor would not have approached his half-kin if there had not been darkness lingering in his gaze, if he had not sensed his depravity and saw in that his own salvation. 

“And you act as if you are an only child. We all have our faults,” Fingolfin scoffed, reaching for the wine they had carried into the bathing room. He could not stomach Fëanor without drowning himself in wine. Fëanor noticed all things, this especially, and it made the cruelty in him settle in his throat, and the words spilled from his mouth as they were wont to do. His harsh words often settled the violence that usually made a home in his chest. 

“It should have been so.” 

Fingolfin did not even pause as he tipped back his flute of wine, swallowing it all and then refilling it, his cheeks flushed and his nostrils flared. The insult had hit its mark but still Fingolfin held his head high and pretended to snub him. 

“So noble,” Fëanor growled. 

“I understand that it excites you to argue with me,” Fingolfin said, gaze cutting over to him as he downed another flute of wine. “But I do not think you invited me here to quarrel and then rut like animals.” 

“Oh but we’re so efficient at that are we not?” Fëanor smiled slowly just to see Fingolfin wither uncomfortably beneath his gaze. “I am relieved we do not share the same face,” Fëanor continued. “The way you scowl at me is quite unflattering-”

“Enough!” Fingolfin’s voice cut through the moist air, full of a sudden authority that gave Fëanor pause. “Speak plainly, brother. You depart in the morning and you will have no excuse to meet with me again until the next frost.” 

Fëanor was quiet for a time, letting the ire and simmering resentment surrounding them settle before they came to blows as if they were children again. He was unsurprised when Fingolfin drifted closer, and poured him a glass of wine. Fingolfin’s fëa was akin to water, at times moved by any little wind, prone to storms at the worst of times, but still as glass at other moments. It appeared effortless to reign in his temper. But there was no molten fire at his core as there was in Fëanor. Did he not understand how difficult it was to hone fire? To control it in any fashion? 

Fingolfin settled down beside him with his own wine glass, the warm water reaching his well defined collar bone. Though he was still slighter in build than Fëanor, he had honed his body in the yard these last years, and he was fine to look upon. 

Fëanor remained silent as he took the offered glass and drank deeply. Summer sat on his tongue in the form of deep cherries. For a moment he thought of ringing one of the serving girls for a bowl of that sweet red fruit, if only to see it redden Fingolfin’s lips. Already there was a stain upon his mouth as if Fëanor had bitten him. He did so when the moment took him away, in the heat of their coupling. He felt lust gnaw at him, but he let the feeling settle in the face of why he had begun this depraved dance between them. 

“You have become restless,” Fingolfin murmured. “More restless than usual, that is.” Sweat had begun to bead against his neck from the heat of the bath, trickling down against the bruises of his neck, the teeth marks Fëanor had left behind like parting gifts to Fingolfin’s wife. He reached out and slid one lone finger against the side of Fingolfin’s neck, following the trail of sweat slowly. He felt the shiver of Fingolfin’s body and smiled. He felt he almost knew Anairë through Fingolfin’s body, and wondered where she left her gentle kisses amongst the wreckage he always left behind. 

“There is a strange scent on the air,” Fëanor said, fingers turning his wine glass by the stem, around and around. When he glanced at Fingolfin, he found a captive audience but he was not sure how much he should reveal to gain his confidence. As if he had caught onto the thread of his thinking, the heat of Fingolfin’s body was closer, damp arm brushing his own as he leaned nearer. 

“I know that you question my loyalty quite often,” Fingolfin’s voice was soft near his ear and it sent a shiver down the nape of his neck. “But our family is ever at the forefront of my mind.”

 _Our family._

Fingolfin had always spoken as if they were a complete unit, as if there was not a deep wickedness that had been eroding the roots of Finwë's line for centuries. There was darkness here that could not be made right by either of their hands. In fact, they had been aiding in the disintegration of their father’s legacy. 

“There is a profound love that I hold for you-” Fingolfin’s breath stirred the hair near his ear and his body recoiled at his half-kin’s open confession. Fingolfin had always been forthright with his affection. Even in childhood, when Fëanor had openly shunned him, Fingolfin had still tugged at his robes, seeking a return of his love. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Fingolfin gazing on him with placid face and wide blue eyes. He would have been easy to love in another life. 

“I have opened my doors to your sons and treated them as my own,” Fingolfin continued, his fingers curling around Fëanor’s forearm gently. “They have broken bread with my children and I consider them my blood. There is a bond there that cannot be broken now. I have never expected tenderness from you, yearned for it, yes, ached for it in my most desperate moments, but I am not the fool you perceive me to be.” 

Fëanor wanted to pull his arm from Fingolfin’s grasp, to leave this space that had become too heavy and vulnerable for him. He tried to turn his face away but Fingolfin was there with fingers to his chin. He had never dared touch him this way out of the confines of their bed and Fëanor’s gaze flickered over his half-kin’s face in mild irritation. 

“Your heart has been closed to me since you laid eyes on me.” From the very cradle, contempt had spread its veins into Fëanor’s heart, blackening it against all that would challenge his existence. Fingolfin was indeed not the simpleton he had first taken him to be. He understood more than he let on. 

“But for me, you have always been a beacon I must strive towards, brighter than those precious jewels of yours.” Laughter stirred the hair near his ear as Fingolfin leaned forward. He allowed Fingolfin to catch at his hair and turn his face into a kiss. For once, he was unsure of how to proceed. He leaned into the kiss, his brow pinching at the sudden tenderness Fingolfin was showing him. When he pulled away, he could not escape the deep blue of Fingolfin’s gaze. There was water in his lungs. It felt as if he were swallowing the very sea. 

“Loyalty is in my veins, Fëanor. I will harvest it until the end of Arda.” 

“You do not know what I will ask of you.”

“I do not need to.” 


	4. Chapter 4

It was during the long winter months that he caught them at what he’d long suspected. His son stood before him, swathed in his heavy furs, his cheeks reddened by the biting cold, with lips that were redder, and braids that had been pulled from their usual golden plaits. Fingolfin sat in the great hall, legs and arms crossed and let Fingon stand before the dais at the bottom step, head bowed. 

The room was deathly quiet and when Fingon brushed the back of his hand against his cheek, Fingolfin realized that his son was weeping. The frothing anger in him melted at the tears. Anairë had ever been the disciplinarian with their children, but this was a matter he would rather keep from her. She would swiftly cut contact with Fëanor and that he could not have, not now when things were in such a fragile state between their houses. And if Fëanor were to find out, it would be _his_ neck on the line, not Maedhros’, though the boy would surely suffer a good beating. 

As the eldest, Maedhros should have known, should have put a stop to Fingon’s adolescent pining. How similar Fingon was to his very own father, and that thought softened his angry resolve. 

“Come here,” He gestured with two fingers so that his son stepped forward and then knelt on one knee before him, his head still bowed, not out of respect, but out of deep embarrassment he was certain. 

“I understand-” He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth as discomfort settled in his stomach. “I understand that at your age, some functions must be expounded upon, and if not, you lot will take it upon yourselves to find out regardless. But Fingon...” He stopped, seeing himself in that candlelit room, knees bruised upon the flagstone as he looked up in adoration at Fëanor. His brother could have very well been the Valar themselves, so deep was his affection. 

“He is your kin-”

“It was merely a kiss.” Fingon’s head snapped up, and there was an angry fire burning in the storm gray eyes Anairë had given him. His cheeks shone in the dimly lit room, and that was all the answer Fingolfin needed. 

“Do not play me for a fool, son. It is written on your face what you have done.” 

They had been comfortable as lovers in their embrace. He had caught his nephew with his hands in his son’s hair, pressing his back against a wall in a corridor, in plain view to anyone who might happen to come upon them. The anger was back and he pushed himself to standing by the arms of his great chair. 

“I am sending Maedhros from my halls.” 

“Father, no!” There was anguish in Fingon’s voice, and it threatened to crack the fiery resolve in Fingolfin. He knew what it was to sit in grief each passing of the seasons, waiting for Fëanor to turn his gaze upon him once more. He was intimate with misery. 

But Fingon must learn early what strength was. He would not grow weak-hearted like his father. Fingolfin would separate the two lordlings before the bond grew too deep to extract. When he had begun to mend the rent in their family, he had not meant for their sons to fall into the same corruption their fathers had. He felt his anger turn on himself then. Perhaps he had pushed them too firmly together, without thought to the close confines of his halls, and the deep curse on their line. In struggling to tame Fëanor and keep his children safe, he had unwittingly exposed them to danger. He had been nothing but truthful when he’d told Fëanor their family was first in his mind. His son must come even before his brother. 

“I will follow him.” 

“You will not,” Fingolfin spoke calmly, linking his fingers in front of him as he gazed in pity on his eldest. “Do you think that your uncle would welcome you in his halls? Has he ever shown one thread of affection or even decency towards you or your siblings?” Fëanor was cold towards Fingolfin’s children. He had never seen him lay a hand on Fingon, and he barely offered a greeting when he visited. Fingolfin watched as the realization spread across Fingon’s face, the anger turning to wide-eyed disbelief at the hopelessness of his situation. And then the anguish returned, and he fell to his knees before Fingolfin, his face buried in the palms of his shaking hands. 

Fingolfin knelt carefully then, feeling his own face warm in sorrow. He felt Fingon’s grief like crushing waves against his skin. His son was water, a well of emotions that he did not know how to control just yet. How alike they were. How _alike_ they were. He put his arms around Fingon, drawing him to his chest as he hadn’t done since his son was a child and hiding from thunder storms. He felt the collar of his robes slowly become saturated as Fingon buried his face there. 

“In time, you will be reunited,” He soothed, pulling his fingers through the mess of his son’s dark hair. “When the fire has cooled between the two of you.” He tried laying the braids straight, his chest aching at the knowledge of how they had become so disheveled. His nephew had stared at him silently upon discovery, Fëanor proud and unafraid on his handsome face. He would be the one to sever the ties, there was no other way. Fingon would run back to him but if it were Maedhros who turned his back, there would be heartbreak, but it would be done and over with. Maedhros’ resolve was as steely as his brother’s, an immovable rock at the best of times. 

“One day you will look upon him with _pure_ love,” He murmured against the dark crown of Fingon’s dark hair. _Not the polluted love of the corrupted_ , his mind echoed. He would not allow his son to fall into that deep well, and he did not wish that pain upon Maedhros either. He had no doubt the boy would see reason, if only to save Fingon’s heart. 

His halls were now as raucous as his father’s had been when Indis and her brood had graced their home. And yet, there was a warmth here that had been absent in those old days. Fëanor sat now with a son on each knee at the head of their long dining table, his chest filled with pride. His two youngest were wilder than their brothers had been at this age and it had taken some wrestling to get them to sit and eat properly. Even now, Amrod tried to wiggle his way from his embrace, but he merely tightened his arm and bounced his knee to keep him occupied. Nernadel passed with a plate full of sour cherries baked in wine, gifts from his younger brother’s orchards, and stopped long enough to thread her fingers through his hair. 

"You are so good with them. They will not sit still for me.” He could feel her smile near the curve of his ear. 

“Not even Maedhros had such spirit,” He laughed as she drifted away to help set the table. 

“Speaking of Maedhros-” Curufin muttered beside him. 

The entry door had been left open, and snow had begun to drift inside the foyer. He could hear his son’s voice even over the whistling of the wind. One of the servants hurried to shut the door against the bitter cold, and it was then that Maedhros made his entrance, dramatic for a son that was anything but; wild and unruly and stubborn, but it was Celegorm that had been given the flare for theatrics.

Fëanor’s brow crinkled at the sight of Maedhros’ reddened face, and he was certain the ruddiness was not from the cold. His son remained mute as he took his usual seat beside him. His hair was unbound and wind tousled and Fëanor realized with an ugly start, that his son must have traveled alone. He had arrived several months too early and he had not sent out a party to retrieve him.

“What is it?” Fëanor greeted him gruffly, trying to catch Maedhros’ eyes, gold as the honey set upon the table, but his son hung his head, and did not stir when a plate of steaming food and a flute of wine was placed in front of him. “Have you quarreled with Fingolfin?” It was the only viable explanation to his sudden appearance. 

His son’s affinity for Fingon was the only reason Maedhros had a room set aside in his half-kin’s halls and it was a battle to get him to come home most seasons. The twins finally managed to squirrel their way from his grasp and he let them duck beneath the table to play. When Maedhros remained quiet with bent head, Fëanor cleared his throat and picked up a knife to begin sawing into the pheasant Celegorm had filled their stores with for the winter. There was a certain aggression to the sawing that finally brought Maedhros head up. 

“We will speak in my chamber after dinner.” 

“Yes father,” Came the soft answer and Fëanor’s brow furrowed deeper.

He had raised his sons with a firm yet fair hand. He had left the gentleness to his wife, but seeing Maedhros so uncharacteristically downtrodden, left him with a heavy sense of concern. He sat by the fire and motioned for his son to take the chair opposite him. He had spent much time with Maedhros over the years, being his first born, and he knew his moods well enough to read him. 

“Was it Fingon then?” He wondered, and Maedhros tilted his head, his eyes on the fire, as if he wanted to speak, but the words would not come. His face was troubled, and he hated to see it so because out of all his children, Maedhros favored Nerdanel the most. He had been born with the same stardust on his cheeks and laughter on his lips. 

“Did you slay someone then?” He chuckled, seeking a reaction, but Maedhros’ brow only creased and his eyes remained on the fire, hardened amber. He was angry. “If it was your uncle, then we can come to some sort of und-”

“This cannot be mended,” Maedhros finally spoke, his voice deep and soulful, but he noticed the slight tremble in it. 

“Everything can be mended,” Fëanor said. “With the right tactic.” 

“It was Uncle who sent me from his halls.” 

“Then you must have misstepped gravely, because I know my half-kin.” Fëanor raised a critical eyebrow. “He is soft as butter and moved by little. Why has he not sent me word of your arrival or an explanation-”

“You will not receive an explanation,” Maedhros’ voice dropped to a near whisper. “We have dealt with the matter between us. I will not be returning to his halls for the time being.” 

“And what is the matter?” 

Maedhros heaved a great sigh and sat back into his chair, his fingers linked across his chest, and still he would not face his father. Fëanor felt his concern settle into dread, and he knew then that he would get an answer he would not like before the night was through. 

“I swore never to speak of it.” 

“Swore to my half-brother?” Fëanor laughed shortly. “What little does that mean to me? It cannot be all that dreadful, Maedhros.” 

“I have lain with Fingon as if he were my wife.” The words were set down with such force that Fëanor merely stared at his son, uncomprehending. He watched as Maedhros drew his fingers through his mussed hair, pulling it over his face and then he bent into himself, as if he were afraid that Fëanor would strike him. Or maybe it was grief, pure unfiltered grief. 

“You will not return to Fingolfin’s halls,” Fëanor agreed, his voice a stone dropped into the silence of the room. He had long suspected Maedhros’ affections for his cousin to be less than innocent. He had watched then grow up together, twined like the branches of a tree. He had attempted to pull them apart many times before complacence had settled in. He had misstepped and it had been an error he could not now mend. Maedhros was correct in that aspect. He leaned forward and twined his fingers into the fire of his son’s hair to bring him forward so that they were face to face. 

“This secret will die here in this room,” He said slowly. “And henceforth, you will not meet with Fingon again.” It was better to bury some things and let them rot. He and Fingolfin knew that well and he was much assured that his half-brother would not breathe one word of this misfortune. 

Flames leapt in the golden depths of Maedhros’ eyes and his lips remained down-turned but he nodded once in understanding. He had not fought against this separation and he wondered why. His son was tough-spirited and his affection for Fingon was well-rooted. 

“You are in love with him.” 

“I do not wish harm on him,” Maedhros answered dutifully. “He will suffer in my absence but less so if I had stayed.” Fëanor’s hand remained in Maedhros’ hair and he pulled him forward into an embrace that his son gave over unwillingly. His eldest was stubborn, that was true, but he was also wise and harbored a kind heart from his mother. They had not embraced one another since Maedhros was a child, and he felt too big and unyielding in his arms now. 

“You were meant for much more than this.” He said, his gaze on the fire over Maedhros’ shoulder. “And soon you will see your path. Mayhap you will need the love of your cousin in the future.” He felt Maedhros pull from his embrace sharply, and it was Nerdanel’s fiery gaze that stared back at him then. _Distrust._ He sensed it then in his eldest and that was more dangerous than whatever bedplay his son had been up to. His son would lead his brothers when the time came, and he needed him to remain strong and unmoved.

“I only meant that you may need his _support_ in the future.” Maedhros leaned away from him then, slinking back into his chair, his arms crossing over his chest, brow furrowed. 

“It has been long since you’ve worked with me in the forge.” 

“I do not enjoy it,” Maedhros said softly. 

“I know this.” He had always known that Maedhros had not the gift that he and Nerdanel had been born with. But he had quite enjoyed guiding Maedhros’ hand in the art of creation when he was younger. It was time that they revisit that particular pastime of his. “But there is a special gift I would like to mold.” 

“For whom?”

“You will see.” Fëanor smiled gently, fingers moving beneath the light of the fire so that they glinted with the gold of his many rings.

It had been the turning of several seasons since his father had asked the presence of all his children. Anairë had wound yellow spring flowers into the braids of her dark tresses for the journey and they were all of them free of the trappings of winter. Fingolfin rode in light robes and Fingon took up the head in summer tunic, his hunting bow strapped to his back. The sullenness he had carried with him through the long seasons had finally lifted and he even smiled at his mother over his shoulder. 

They had weathered a rough storm with the breaking of Fingon’s heart. There were many nights he had set up a guard outside of Fingon’s rooms so heavy was his grief. Fingolfin had battled with himself over bringing Fingon along to his father’s halls but Finwë had been firm that every blood of his attend the spring festivities. He wondered if some big announcement would be made to have his warring sons sit at the same table once again. Surely time had healed the rent in his Fingon’s chest, and perhaps he could begin to repair a friendship with Maedhros. Still, worry sat heavy on his shoulders. He was never truly settled when his brother was near. 

_“How deep is the well of your love for me?”_

The question had come as a whisper against his neck, still wet from the bath. There had been no answer from Fingolfin, so stunned he had been by his brother’s request of him, and that silence had rent them apart just as surely as Fingolfin had pulled Fingon from his cousin’s iron grip. Their families had not spoken in years and Fingolfin had not the energy to piece together what had been shattered. 

_“You are with me or you are against me. Your silence speaks for you.”_

Those words sat with him as he entered the courtyard of his father. Fëanor had already arrived but was nowhere to be seen. It was his sons that stood like sentinels in the courtyard to greet Fingolfin’s family. Maedhros was the only one of his nephews who was missing and it was Maglor that took up the eldest duties of greeting. 

Fingolfin watched Fingon carefully and noticed the sweeping of his gaze, the smile that fell when it was Celegorm who took the reins of his horse. His son would learn well the art of subtlety. He could not keep them from each other but they were surrounded with a lively family. There would be no privacy or time for any stolen moments. Maedhros’ absence was as good a rejection as any, and he silently thanked his nephew.

Two streaks of red made their way across the courtyard and Fingolfin was taken aback for a moment at how quickly the two youngest Fëanorians had grown. They were spindly little things just barely out of childhood, boisterous with a glint of mischievousness in their eyes. Fingolfin couldn’t for the life of him tell them apart, but perhaps it was his own fault, the deep rift that had been made between their families. 

“Ambarussa, take the horses to stable,” Celegorm commanded and Fingolfin smiled as the boys scurried to obey. The one taking the reins from Fingolfin had his hair tied messily back and away from his face, free of braids, and he had the same dusting of freckles and deep red hair as his mother and eldest brother. He offered a quick, shy smile to Fingolfin as he led his mare away. 

“Amrod,” Celegorm greeted the other boy with a hand in his court-braided hair. Amrod ducked his head, disentangling his brother’s hand, his wary eyes on Fingolfin. There was no smile or kindness in his face and he wondered at the cold reception. 

“He does not remember you,” Maglor said, falling into step beside him as he left the courtyard. 

Maglor had barely changed from the sullen boy he’d been in childhood. His features had sharpened some, lending his face an elegant air, and he had begun to wear his hair loose about his shoulders, shunning the braids he had always hated in childhood. His mind was not of Fëanor’s ilk, he had always tended to the arts in a solitary, almost obsessive fashion. Sound and music was his beauty, not the jewels and shiny metals of his father. Fingolfin had always had a soft spot for his brooding nephew because of this. 

“We have never met,” Fingolfin excused. 

“Father has not spoken your name in years.” 

“I expect he wouldn’t,” Fingolfin said, a small smile tilting the corner of his mouth. “His temper is legendary and we did not part on good terms. I’m only sorry it affected you and your brothers.” 

“I wondered what had gone ill between the two of you.”

“You shall continue to wonder,” Fingolfin laughed, patting Maglor’s shoulder just as they entered the great halls of Finwë. 

He remembered well these vast halls, could pull from them faint peaceful memories amongst the charred rubble Fëanor had made his childhood. He had not returned once he had left to make his own life and he knew now why. Everywhere he saw himself, wisps of a time long gone, always vigil beneath the black gaze of his elder brother, and yet trailing the ends of his robe all the same. He had truly been held in contempt and the weight of it had nearly crushed his fëa, had anything changed since those long winter years? 

The scent of roasting meat and elderberry wine was on the air, and the sounds of the house preparing for the spring festivities echoed through the long stone columns. The columns and railings throughout the halls had been strung with wreathes of every flower imaginable and the scents mingled with the spices was nearly welcoming. He picked one of the blue anemones climbing from a column and tucked it into the front of his robes. 

His father sat on his great throne, welcoming each member of his growing family, and when it came Fingolfin’s time, he bent a knee to him and felt his father’s warm palm against his face and his lips against the crown of his head. It had been long since he’d seen his father. They had been close in his childhood, but Fëanor stood like a sentinel in Finwë’s heart first and foremost and each meeting was a reminder of that. His mother stepped down from the dias and enveloped him in her soft arms. She smelled of the peonies she had braided into her thick golden hair. 

“Welcome home,” She whispered against his temple.

The dinner festivities were a raucous affair. The hall resounded with the raising of excited voices and loud laughter as each and every one of Finwë’s blood crowded around the long stone tables. Fingolfin’s little family sat some ways down from the head, and were not as lively as Fëanor’s bursting brood, but he smiled to see his nephews reacquainting themselves with their cousins. They were all of them like bright wavering flames, flickering around the table as Fëanor had been in his youth, full of excitement and life. He felt Anairë’s palm at the back of his neck and she squeezed once in acknowledgement. It felt nice to be surrounded by family despite the murky water that sat between them. 

He had given up on seeing his eldest nephew when he pushed the doors of the dining hall open and the twins pulled themselves away from the table to wrap themselves around his legs. He was still in his hunting clothes and had not washed the dirt of the fields from his face or clothes. There was a sourness to his face that he did not remember from the summers he had spent in Fingolfin’s home. There he had always been laughing in Fingolfin’s halls, the dimples in Maedhros’ freckled cheeks pulled taut. His face was stone now, and he said not a word as he swept past the end of the table to take his place by his father. Fingolfin was startled out of his confusion when Fingon stood from the table, tossing his cutlery onto his plate with a loud clatter and left the hall without a backward glance. It was like a practiced dance with jarring, aggressive steps, and Fingolfin suddenly felt his own anger engulf him. He had not given Fingon leave. He started to stand but his wife tugged him back down smoothly.

“Leave him,” Anairë said softly against his ear, her hand twined in his hair to keep him from pulling away. “You know as well as I do what is going on and you must let it play out.” 

He had not spoken a word to Anairë about the reason Maedhros had been banished from their home, or why Fingon had spent so many nights soaking his pillows with grief, but she had known all the while. No amount of lies had ever been able to turn her head. He supposed she knew why he himself disappeared each night they spent with Fëanor beneath their roof. 

He leaned into her warmth, closing his eyes for a moment, and letting her calm wash over him like the waves of their home. He felt her presence then as something fragile, and he held her hand tightly beneath the table, wondering when she would tire of this hellscape and depart. 

__

The desperation between them made itself known that evening in a frenzied dance. Fëanor was all heat and light against him and Fingolfin melted into it, yearning to be consumed by that light. They hadn’t even made it to the bed, and Fingolfin had found himself pressed against the rough stone wall of a guest room, Fëanor’s hand over his mouth to muffle the desperate sound of his voice. 

The air smelled of flowers, the entire place was filled with them, and it was becoming almost cloying. The blue anemone he had tucked into his robe lay crushed on the floor beside the bed. He hung an arm over the edge and picked the flower up to place on the nightstand over a tome of poetry someone had left there. He felt a hand in his hair and turned his head sharply, startled by the casual touch. 

“Your hair is thicker than mine,” Fëanor mused, eyebrow raised as he threaded a lock of Fingolfin’s hair through his long, fine fingers. They were free of the usual gold and jewels and Fingolfin ached to touch them properly, to feel them slide between his own fingers. “But then so is Indis' hair. There’s a faint curl to it. Like the waves of an ocean.” 

“If I had been conceived by Míriel, would you have loved me better for it?” The words came from his mouth in a foul spout and he shuddered at the rawness of them. 

“Do not call forth my mother,” There was a sharpness in Fëanor’s gaze that cut deeply and his hair fell from Fëanor’s hand in a soft wave. “If you had been wholly of my blood, you would have known your place.” 

_And we would not be entangled in this bed together._

Perhaps Fëanor would not have felt the need to claim him body and fëa. Perhaps Fëanor would have treated him with respect and Fingolfin could have loved him purely and not sought the basest of affection from him. Perhaps he would not have spent so many nights trying to exorcise Fëanor from his body. 

_“Must you always make it known how ill fitting you are for the house of Finwë?”_ The words had often been hissed at him after some minor inconvenience or misstep around his elder brother. It had made Fingolfin walk as if he were stepping amongst shards of broken glass. He had wanted nothing but a bit of praise from Fëanor, a smile, a kind word that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or bitterness. 

“You are always so morose after bedding,” Fëanor scoffed, sitting up against the headboard of their great bed so that Fingolfin was pushed from his side. Fëanor flung a hand towards the decanter sitting beside the bed. “Have a glass of wine, as it seems to be the very thing that allows you to do the deed comfortably.” Fingolfin lifted his face, gazing at Fëanor with creased brow as his brother turned away. His hair was mused, obscuring the tight line of his mouth, the sour look as if he’d caught a whiff of spoiled milk. 

“Are you angry about the bedding or that I refused you all that long time ago?” Fingolfin wondered aloud. He pushed himself to rest against an elbow, curiosity flooding his body. It was always so difficult to read Fëanor’s ever shifting moods and the delicate reasons behind them. It was a grand game to Fëanor. 

“You speak of loyalty but turn hide when I ask for it.” 

“You speak of treason.” Fingolfin’s voice rose in disbelief. “You speak of... _war._ ” The term felt awkward in his mouth, so unused it was to being spoken aloud. He sat up fully now, an icy hand brushing down his spine as he looked on the sudden rage in Fëanor’s face. “I will not bring ruin down upon my family. My son will play no part in these evil plans-”

“The same son who bedded down with the heir of Finwë?” Fëanor’s voice rose above Fingolfin’s and there was a sudden tumultuous blackness that settled between them and Fingolfin felt like a child again, incurring the wrath of his elder brother because he dared to speak his mind. In this he could not stand down. The family he had created for himself held precedence now and they looked to him for protection. When would his love for Fëanor succumb to its harsh environment, left parched and decaying? 

“You know as well as I who led whom down into those depths.” He moved from the bed swiftly, grabbing up his robe and flinging it on. Fury settled on his shoulders and he looked about for something to fling at Fëanor’s stubborn head. If he’d had something sharp he would have run Fëanor through with it surely as his brother began to laugh from deep in his throat. 

“You are the fury of the storms aren’t you?” Fëanor was more languid with his departure. He slid from the bed and began to dress slowly, still laughing at the spectacle Fingolfin had made of himself. “That deep rooted anger would serve well on the battlefield but does little here.” Fingolfin watched Fëanor dress, his face inflamed and his breathing unsteady. Fëanor took the time to wind his hair into a loose braid as he gazed on Fingolfin calmly. 

“I encouraged the relationship after I was made known of it,” Fëanor said slowly and Fingolfin felt his anger settle into a molten hatred. “It was Maedhros who declined out of his love for you and Fingon. Love is weak, and it has made my son weak. He could have used it against Fingon at the right time if he had tended it carefully.” He swept a hand out towards Fingolfin in illustration, one fine eyebrow quirked. Fëanor was so deeply rooted that Fingolfin could not dig him from his veins and they both knew this. 

“I prayed to Eru daily that your sons would grow to be nothing like you,” Fingolfin said finally. His chest felt cold as he belted his robe and made for the door. Their time apart had only served to weaken his resolve and he knew that it was best now to flee before he found himself kneeling before Fëanor in supplication. 

“It is fine to see you in spring with flowers wound in your hair.” Fëanor sat leaning against the window seat near the bed, his robe open at the chest, his skin gleaming in the low candlelight. He had taken an herb from the sideboard and placed it in a smoking pipe. Creeping vines had been carved into the dark wood of the pipe by Fëanor’s own hand. The scent of the herb was meant to calm but the way Fëanor placed the stem of the pipe against his reddened lips and smiled at him, smoke curling around his face, only served to weaken Fingolfin further. “I only ever see you in winter when your hair is bound and your skin is cold.” 

Fëanor had only ever sought to use him, and he now understood it was for this one incredulous finale. An end to the tranquil world they had known since their very beginning. Fëanor could never go quietly. Fingolfin felt defeat settle on his shoulders, and he shook his head as he pushed the chamber door open beneath a trembling palm.

“In my heart, it is always winter.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! I appreciate every single one of them :) I truly love hearing everyone's individual takes and thoughts on this and I hope you continue to enjoy this loooooong fic haha


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